Everything Changes
by clinicduty
Summary: Part Three of the Full Circle Trilogy: More than a decade after leaving Michigan, Greg House is working for Lisa Cuddy at PPTH. Everything has changed for the friends and former lovers, and an unforeseen tragedy is changing them again. Set around the time of House's infarction. Canon-oriented with some artistic license, it bridges the gap between Michigan and Making Amends.
1. Chapter 1

**Part 1**

She hadn't seen him in eight years.

Not since that evening in Detroit when he'd called her from an airport bar, a drunken and emotional mess. They'd spent that night in a hotel and she'd helped him pick up the pieces and put him back together. They'd just slept, holding one another, and he'd returned to North Carolina the following day.

"I just left," he'd said in the middle of the night, as they lay together, waiting for sleep to come. "I didn't even know where I was going until I was on the plane. I just…"

"… came to where you knew you'd be loved," she'd finished for him.

He'd smiled at her in the shadows at that, the expression a tender one. His fingers had skimmed her cheek as he whispered, "Yeah."

He'd asked if he could kiss her and she'd said "yes." And they had kissed soft and slow, a few times, enough to stir feelings and desires but not let them take the wheel.

They'd slept then and she'd dropped him at the airport the next morning to catch a flight. They'd hugged goodbye, exchanged kisses on the cheek, and dared a gentle pressing of lips before she'd returned to Ann Arbor to finish her degree and enter medical school.

That was the last time she'd seen him until a little over a year ago, when she'd stepped out of the elevator in the employee parking garage at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital — her domain as Dean of Medicine.

He'd been there, his motorcycle parked by her car, wearing a leather jacket and jeans, his sunglasses hanging from the neck of a worn Motley Crue tee. He hadn't been looking up, so she'd taken a moment to catch her breath and calm her heart while simultaneously trying to absorb the sheer male beauty of him. He'd looked great, fit.

But not carefree. He'd been worried and afraid.

He'd asked her for a job. He'd had nowhere else to go, no favors to call in from colleagues. His medical career had been over to all intents and purposes. He'd been blackballed by previous employers. His pride had been obliterated and he'd been utterly defeated. She'd heard it in his voice as they sat in her car and talked.

"I've got nowhere else to go, Cuddy," he'd said, looking down in shame then up at her, desperation filling in his eyes. "I need your help."

She'd been his last hope. Secretly, she'd wished she had been his first, as she had been his first in other ways — and he hers. But things had changed for them both and he hadn't come to Princeton alone.

He'd brought a girlfriend — a constitutional lawyer named Stacy. The tall brunette had looked good with him and Cuddy had seen their love for each other. That had hurt, but she'd understood. It had been a long time and no one pined forever.

And yet she had, in the recesses of her heart, and still did.

Stacy sat with him now, in the ICU of Cuddy's hospital, hovering over him as he lay in debilitating pain, on the verge of dying. She was nice, and good to him. At the moment, she was pleading with him to choose a course of treatment that would save his life.

It was Cuddy's idea, a compromise between what he adamantly refused and what would certainly mean an agonizing death.

It was difficult to stand by and witness the exchange. Cuddy knew a part of him wanted death. She'd seen that damned darkness in his eyes — the one that seemed to dictate that he hurt himself. She'd seen it when he'd rejected the treatment option when she'd presented it to him a while ago. And she'd seen it before, when she'd gone to get him at Princeton General.

Pride had made him go there instead of coming to PPTH, where he worked as an attending. Her staff diagnostics attending — a job she'd created just for him.

They'd treated him appallingly there, mistaking him for a drug-seeking addict instead of a patient in the early stages of a severe medical crisis. An infarction. A random, unforeseeable blood clot in an otherwise healthy, physically fit man that was now going to cost him a leg in some form. Or his life.

Stacy had called her after the staff at Princeton General had catheterized him without anesthetic, which was tantamount to torture. Livid, Cuddy had wasted no time in getting there. She'd commandeered EMTs and an ambulance and gone to get him herself.

She'd ripped the attending on duty a new one as she gave House a shot of morphine herself, drawn from the ambulance drug box. Then she'd verbally eviscerated the hospital's chief of staff, shouting across the gurney at the burly, balding man as they headed out of the building.

"Are you really going to quote your policy to me? _This has nothing to do with policy._ The fact is that you let your _idiot_ doctors torture a patient … _my_ chief of diagnostics … because they_ thought_ he might be drug-seeking. A dose of lidocaine isn't a prescription for Vicodin or a shot of morphine. It's humane and ethical. What your staff did was not. And you know it."

The man had backed off and she'd glared at anyone from the Princeton General's staff who'd even looked like they might try touching the gurney. She'd trusted only her people to handle House, who'd looked at her with a healthy measure of pride when she'd sat next to him in the ambulance, a stethoscope around her neck.

"Gonna fire me for going to the enemy?" he'd asked, his voice muffled from the mask giving him oxygen. It covered his nose and mouth and fogged a little with his breath.

"You're not that lucky," she'd said, her voice miraculously steady. "I'm not through making your life hell with my bureaucratic demands."

"Lisa," Stacy had chided, too emotionally on edge to appreciate the humor.

But House had. Cuddy had seen amusement peak through the pain that made his eyes red-rimmed and glassy with tears. She'd been unable to suppress the little smile that had risen at seeing it, but she had been able to corral it enough to give Stacy a sympathetic look and offer what reassurances she could.

"We're going to do everything we can."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

No one knew about them. About Michigan.

In the year he'd been working for her, they hadn't sat down and talked about it, and made any decision to keep it secret. It had just been sort of understood. He was in a relationship to which he was committed and she was his boss and what'd happened in Michigan…

That was too special to discuss casually, even with each other.

Lurking in the shadows of his post-op room, Cuddy pretended to review House's chart while she watched him sleep, restlessly. Stacy had been at his side most of the last two days but Cuddy had finally talked her into going home for a while and resting before she dropped from exhaustion.

"He's going to be sedated for a while longer. Go rest. I'll call when he wakes up," Cuddy had told her.

House's friend James Wilson, the hospital's chief oncologist, had helped Cuddy convince the attorney of the need to get away for a bit. Stacy had gone but only after she'd secured Cuddy's promise to keep an eye on him.

Cuddy would have done it anyway. She'd been doing it, from a distance. In truth, she'd hardly left the ward. She hadn't even gone home, instead availing herself of the overnight bag she always kept ready in the trunk of her car, the couch in her office, and the spare suit in the closet of her private bathroom. Even then, her small nook on the ground floor of the hospital had been only an occasional refuge since they'd transferred House from Princeton General.

No one knew how desperately she wanted to hold his hand, touch his brow, and talk to him not like a doctor or boss but as his first love and friend. She cared about him. She still loved him. She hurt for him.

Pain was etched in the lines of his face. Even under heavy sedation it held him and it was almost unbearable to see and know that it had been worse not so many hours ago. That he would likely be dead now if…

On Stacy's direction, as House's medical proxy, the surgeons had executed Cuddy's treatment suggestion in the early hours of the morning, excising the necrotic tissue from his thigh.

He hadn't wanted it, but Stacy had wielded the power of his proxy while he was unconscious, choosing life for him when he'd been ready to embrace death.

Over a leg! A limb! In a time that artificial limb technology was showing significant advancements!

Stacy had pleaded with him to amputate but he'd refused. Cuddy had wanted scream when Stacy had walked defeated out of the room, saying, "He won't do it."

Cuddy had tried to talk to him several times, as a fellow doctor, as his doctor, and discreetly as a friend, but he'd rebuffed her. Not rudely. Not angrily. But with a heart-rending plea to help him save the limb. As his doctor, she'd had no choice but to follow his wishes. She'd never cursed the hippocratic oath before yesterday.

House would be furious when he woke. Cuddy was bracing for the onslaught, remembering how he'd been that summer day in Michigan when he'd forced a breakup between them. The anger at himself, and then at her for confronting him. The pain… both of theirs.

She would stand her ground with him, though, and Stacy was going to have to do the same. The woman seemed prepared to do so, but Cuddy wondered if she knew how far he could go in expressing it, if she'd had to face it before.

He could be cruel when he was in pain. And he _was_ in pain and likely would be for the rest of his life.

And he knew it, which is ultimately why he'd rejected her idea. And why, when he did wake and find out what they'd done, she would try to take the blame, to at least deflect some of his rage away from Stacy.

And himself.

Because that's where the punishment would ultimately settle, Cuddy feared. She had seen that devastation more than once. It had ripped her apart to see the level to which he would destroy himself. And she didn't know if he'd let her help him when it did. If he'd let Stacy, Wilson, anyone. And if he wouldn't let anyone help him reassemble the pieces…

No, she wouldn't think like that. She'd always been able to reach him. If it meant outing their past to Stacy, then she'd out them. His life was more important than he let himself believe. And she'd prove it by fighting for him, if it came to that.

For now, though, she stood watch, easing forward to see him better in the light. She checked the monitors and made notes in the chart, then reached to check his pulse at his wrist, then his neck.

It was an unnecessary thing to do. The monitors gave that information. But it gave her an excuse to touch him with no one the wiser to how she felt about him. She was relieved to find his skin warm and dry, no longer hot and clammy, telling her the infection was in retreat now that the dying tissue was out of his body.

Setting the chart aside, atop the monitors, she arranged her stethoscope then gently pulled down the neck of his gown and listened to his lungs. They sounded clear. His heart…

Her heart skipped a beat at hearing it. She knew everyone's heart sounded largely the same, unless there was a defect or malfunction but this was _his_ heart… It had stopped the day before but it was beating again and she was filled with joy to hear it.

Memories of laying her head on his chest swamped her. She remembered listening to the steady thump-thump, letting it lull her to sleep and dreams many a night.

It was with extreme guilt that she took a moment now, one that wasn't hers to take, that belonged to another woman, and listened to his heart with more than professional intent.

She laid her hand at the side of his head, caressing his smooth jaw as she shut her eyes and took personal comfort in the evidence that he was alive.

_House…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

"Give me a few days, I'll see what I can pull together for you."

His relief had been palpable in the confined atmosphere of her car. Still, he'd looked at her earnestly and told her that he knew she couldn't promise him a job but that he appreciated her trying. She'd just smiled at him.

"Weren't you the one who said I could do anything?"

He'd smiled at that then looked down and away, his sudden shyness stirring memories.

There was nothing shy about him at the moment, though.

Cuddy stood outside his room, at a distance but within sight of the fireworks inside. He was raging against Stacy. When he'd woken and realized what they'd done, he'd asked Cuddy to leave the room. Then he'd launched into the woman he loved.

Seeing the dispute play out through the glass was terrifying. Cuddy wished she had closed the blinds before she'd left. She wished House would let Stacy do it. No one needed to see this.

But it didn't stop Cuddy from watching. She needed to be there when he hurt himself, because he would, eventually. Not intentionally, but the surgical incision was newly stitched and he was moving around enough that he was going to feel it at some point, possibly tear the stitches, and when he did…

He howled and went white as the sheet on the bed.

Cuddy left her spot at the nurse's station, pulling a syringe and vial of morphine from her pocket. She'd already ordered them, having known it had been just a matter of time before they were needed.

She went straight through the doors into his room, motioning other approaching personnel to stay back. She moved swiftly past Stacy, who looked helpless and horrified at the sight of House writhing in agony.

"Get her out," House said when Cuddy reached his bedside. His teeth were clenched in pain and anger. "Get her out, Cuddy," he repeated.

"In a minute," she told him as she uncapped the syringe and drew morphine into the tube.

"Now," he growled.

Cuddy paused and glanced at Stacy. The woman was devastated and Cuddy was about to make it worse.

"Stacy, would you step outside please?"

The woman nodded blindly and left, arms crossed over her chest, head down.

House groaned in pain as she departed and Cuddy looked to see his eyes screwed shut. And tears. She didn't know if they were the result of heartbreak, the pain, or both. Ultimately, it didn't matter if she knew or not.

"She didn't deserve that," Cuddy told him as she slowly injected the medication into the IV. "She loves you. And she saved your life."

He looked at her as she looked at him. There was only pain now.

"I know," he strained. "But I didn't want this." He shook his head against the pillow. "I didn't want this."

That reiteration reached in and wrapped around her heart and _squeezed_. In a swamp of breathtaking guilt, she looked away from him, occupied herself with writing in what she'd just given him, amount and time, in the chart.

"It's not your fault."

Lisa shut her eyes at the undeserved clemency. She'd done everything right according to the law but she hadn't done right by him — at least not honored his wishes. She hadn't fought for him in the way he wanted. But he wasn't blaming her.

"It was my idea," she said, turning her back to him so the people outside the room couldn't see her personal anguish.

"You were doing your job," he said, his voice raspy soft. "You did everything you were supposed to do."

Her own words, from that night in Detroit, returning to her.

"That doesn't make me feel any better," she said under her breath.

"No," he said and she heard resignation, as well as grogginess.

Taking a deep breath, she dared looking at him again and found his eyes still on her, intense and yet also gentle.

"Would you close the blinds?" he asked. "I beginning to know how a goldfish feels."

There was just the tiniest bit of humor glinting in his gaze.

"Okay," she said softly and did as he asked.

She came back to the bed and started to check his wound but he caught her hand.

"Let someone else," he said. She would have been hurt if she hadn't seen that he genuinely needed it to be someone else, that it wasn't an issue of trust.

As his doctor, she didn't know if she should concede, but she did, with a little nod, then asked him if he was feeling better.

"It's less" was his answer.

"You should sleep," she told him when she saw his eyelids growing heavy.

"Yeah," he agreed and gave her hand a little squeeze before releasing it.

"Stacy?" she asked, hoping the mention of the woman wouldn't upset him but she needed to know what to do.

He looked pained at the mention of his lover, but it wasn't physical.

"I need … space."

Lisa understood that need in him very well. She didn't know if Stacy knew.

"Want me to try to get her to go home and rest?"

He nodded. "I'm going to be out anyway."

"Okay," Lisa said softly. "Anything else you want me to tell her?"

"No."

Lisa gave him a sad smile, wishing… She turned to leave but he called out softly to her before she could.

"Thank you."

She didn't know how to accept his gratitude, considering. But he saved her from drowning in guilt with a perfectly-time, trademark verbal volley.

"For the morphine. This stuff rocks."

Finding another smile for him, one less sad, she looked back over at him and said softly, "I'll send in the nurse to check your wound."

He nodded again, his eyes closed.

She watched him for a heartbeat then slipped out of the room.

She would be back. Soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

"I'm with someone."

He'd been staring down and nudging a small stone on the pavement with the toe of his boot when he'd said it. Not many minutes after they'd discussed her finding him a job in her hospital. He'd been just about to leave.

It had surprised her, sort of. He was such a loner in many respects, and yet she knew, that he was capable of socializing, if he found someone he actually wanted to socialize with. And he could love.

On a purely personal, visceral level, she'd been a bit disappointed that he wasn't available. But she'd ignored it and asked him what really mattered most to her.

"Are you happy?"

It had been a moment before he nodded, never taking his eye off the stone. _Like a little boy._

"Then I'm happy for you," she'd said softly and smiled at him when he looked up at her. She'd meant it. Love was a blessing.

_And sometimes a curse_.

Cuddy went to find Stacy after she left House's room. She located her on one of the benches by the water wall. She was on the back side, where she couldn't see House's room. Her head was in her hands, her hair falling forward to shield much of her profile.

Cuddy's heart hurt for her. She knew what it was to deeply and passionately love Greg House, and what it felt like to be hurt by him.

"Stacy."

The woman looked up. Tear stains streaked her makeup, though not substantially. She was holding herself together out here where others could see.

"Is he okay?" Stacy asked as she slid over on the bench to make room for Cuddy.

"He's resting. The morphine will have him out for a while," Cuddy said as she sat then bit her lip, knowing she was about to compound the woman's burdens. "You should think about going home and getting some more rest."

Stacy gave her a "yeah, right" look but said aloud, "He wants me to leave."

Cuddy didn't confirm or deny the correct assertion. She dodged it. "He's out of the woods. We'll be getting him up this evening and start him on walking."

Stacy frowned, asked incredulous. "Do you think he can? You saw how he was in there."

_House can do anything he sets his mind to,_ Cuddy thought to herself. _And he'll do this because the last thing he would want more than his leg amputated is being confined to a bed or wheelchair. _

"Yes," Cuddy said. "It will be painful, but he will do it."

Stacy looked up at the ceiling and sighed. Cuddy saw tears forming.

"He says I betrayed him," the woman said after a few minutes then glanced at Cuddy. "I knew he would be angry, but he is beyond furious."

_He's hurt. And he's hurting. _That was a bad mix with House.

"I know," Cuddy said. "He needs time to process everything that's happened, and what this means for him going forward. It's not going to be easy. It all happened so unexpectedly and suddenly, and the pain is going to cloud everything for a while."

"I know, I know," Stacy said as she propped her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands again. She took several deep breaths, then asked a really hard question. "Did I make the right choice?"

Cuddy swallowed and replied with the answer that Stacy needed to hear. "You made the only choice you could as the woman who loves him. So, yes. You did the right thing."

"He hates me for it," Stacy said and Cuddy thought that could be true. But she wasn't ready to confirm it. It wasn't her place for one thing, and for another, she knew House could forgive. It wasn't easy for him, but she believed he had the capacity.

"Give him time," Cuddy said softly. "It's a lot to take in at once."

"Okay," Stacy said and she sounded so defeated that Cuddy inwardly winced. Then, mustering strength from somewhere, the woman sat up, spine straight in that debutante sort of way.

_She is a classy, elegant woman, _Cuddy thought. _And a hell of a lot stronger than she looks. Of course, she'd have to be for House to have been interested in the first place._

"Do you want Wilson to take you?" Cuddy asked, knowing that he spent more time with Stacy and House than she did. For a perfectly logical reason: She was House and Wilson's boss. Then there was the second reason that had nothing to do with logical and everything to do with her heart: It usually hurt to see the couple together. House knew that, even if no one else did, even if she said nothing, which is why he was never the one to make invitations.

"No, I can drive," Stacy said. "But it's probably best he be here when they try to get Greg out of that bed."

Cuddy agreed with that. "I'll make sure he's there," she said.

"Since he doesn't want me… Will you be here?" Stacy asked, her voice wavering the slightest bit, her gaze giving away how hurt she was at House's rejection.

Cuddy nodded, her heart going out to Stacy. And House.

"Of course," she said softly.

Stacy thanked her then rose and headed down the hallway, shoulders back, head up.

As Cuddy watched her go, a worrisome thought hit her:

_Will she have that strength and determination when it comes to standing by House through the really hard part? _

Because that was still to come.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

"I can't. I can't."

House was protesting vehemently, his voice a strained rasp, as Wilson tried to get him to take another step. He'd already taken one and the resulting pain had been so extreme, he'd nearly passed out.

Her heart in her throat, Cuddy had watched him lose all color and his head start to loll. If Wilson hadn't been beside him, an arm around his waist and House's arm thrown around his shoulder, he would have surely collapsed.

As it was, the oncologist had staggered under House's weight, prompting the physical therapist to step up to help, bracing House from the other side. House hadn't wanted him to touch him a few minutes ago, but he was welcoming his help now.

"Come on, House," Wilson said as Cuddy stood by feeling utterly helpless.

She'd never thought she'd wish she was as tall as House. She had always liked the differences in their height. It had been a sexy thing for her. But right now, she wanted to help him so badly, she'd gladly grow a foot taller. But since that wasn't going to happen, she stepped up to do what she had done for him in the past — tell him the truth, bluntly.

"Keep him up," she said to the two men flanking her patient and friend then addressed him directly, "I know it hurts, but you know you have to do this."

He fixed his gaze on her and she saw anger. He snapped at her. "You don't know a damned thing about it."

Cuddy flinched, startled by the bite behind the words, but did not take it personally. His pain was talking. Wilson on the other hand, scolded him. She ignored the oncologist and focused on House.

"Maybe not, but I know post-surgery protocol and so do you," she told him. "Now walk. Two steps. Give me two steps and you can lay back down."

"Can I get a morphine chaser?" he countered and sounded utterly exhausted.

_And he's only taken one step, _Cuddy thought, her heart aching at knowing this was just the beginning. The pain might be at its most acute now, but there was more pain to come to get him ambulatory again. And more likely after that.

"Not right away," she said, her tone softening. "But yes, as soon as possible."

"Can you speed up time?" he asked her and he wasn't joking. She wished she could and thought to tell him so, but Wilson intervened.

"Take the steps, House."

"Have I ever told you that you're a jerk?" he said to Wilson.

"Only about a thousand times since I met you," Wilson snarked.

"The rest of the time I just call him an idiot," House said to Cuddy.

She rejoiced at hearing his sense of humor emerge. He was in undoubtedly intense pain but he was…

_Looking for a distraction. Like his games and puzzles._

"I just call you an ass," Cuddy countered and she saw his gaze flare with that something that was _him, _and she thrilled when he volleyed back even as he took an excruciating step.

"You have a big one," he groaned as he put his weight on his injured leg.

"House!" Wilson snapped, but Cuddy's eyes and attention remain on House. She saw his expression flicker with pain, his eyes clench shut, and the muscle tick in his jaw. He was breathing through his nose in harsh inhales and exhales.

"It's okay," she found herself telling him but Wilson apparently thought she'd been talking to him.

"No, it's not. It's disrespectful."

Cuddy ignored him again.

"One more, House."

"You are a cruel, cruel woman," he said through clenched teeth, but took a step with his good leg, then the injured one, and then the good.

He'd panted his way through them, his hands fisted in the material of Wilson's dress shirt and the physical therapist's scrub top. But he did it then opened his eyes and looked at Cuddy again.

_God, he's hurting._

"I'd like to lay down now. I'm not feeling very well."

Lisa nodded and watched the two men help him back into bed. It was devastating seeing him so incapacitated and knowing he'd never be the same again physically.

Memories assailed her, of him running with her, of snowball fights and lacrosse practices, of piggyback rides and laser tag and sex against the wall. And God, just standing in the middle of his bedroom.

Delayed diagnosis of the infarction. The surgery to save his life. They had robbed him of those things.

And it grieved her deeply.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

Fingertips grazed the length of her spine, slowly, so lightly that she shivered.

"Mmmm, that feels good," she murmured to the man laying beside her. Her head pillowed on her arms, she opened her eyes and looked at him. He wore a lazy smile.

"You feel good," he said, his voice saturated with contentment. He'd been in a tender mood all evening. She loved when he was like that. It made her want to kiss him. So she did, moving from her comfortable wallow in the blankets to stretch out across him.

"Hello," he said as he brushed her hair back from her face.

"Hello," she replied with an amused hum.

He laughed silently as she continued looking at him.

"Gonna kiss me?" he asked.

"Want one?" she asked.

"You offering?"

"You accepting?"

His laughter was no longer silent and neither was her own. It was soft and gentle. And so was the kiss she finally bestowed on him.

He rolled her over when it ended, pulling her under his larger body. She touched his face as he hovered over her. He was smiling still.

"You're happy," she observed.

His expression softened impossibly more. "So are you."

"Yes," she breathed. Then, softly, "I want to make love."

Blue eyes roved over her face.

"Yeah," he whispered then kissed her as he eased between the crux of her legs when she spread them in welcome.

"Cuddy?"

Lisa Cuddy jerked awake at hearing her name. It wasn't the voice of the lover of her dreams.

Opening her eyes she saw James Wilson standing over her. She'd fallen asleep on her couch, beneath her lab coat.

"Wilson?" she said, wondering at his presence and more than a little frustrated that he'd interrupted her dream — culled from a memory from House's final days with her in Michigan. She didn't have them often about House, at least not as often as she had in college, and she always felt a little guilty when she did, but she couldn't deny that she…

"He's wanting to leave AMA."

"What?" she said, sitting up, alarm replacing sexual frustration and a sliver of guilt in an instant.

"House. He wants papers to leave AMA."

Incredulous and irritated was how Cuddy would describe Wilson's tone. He was a master of sarcasm, which tended to color everything he said in some way, unless he was talking to a patient. He was a perfect match for House in that sense. But right now, he didn't sound sarcastic at all.

"He's an idiot," Lisa declared as she pushed herself and smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt. She slipped her feet in her shoes and then shirked on her lab coat as she headed out the door of her office.

"How's my hair?" she asked, knowing Wilson would be honest with her. He was kind but definitely forthright with her when it came to appearance.

"It's insult-proof," he said, which meant she was presentable enough to not be fodder for House's rapid-fire wit and still-present juvenile need to offer insults or compliments disguised as insults.

His surgery had been four days earlier. She'd wanted him to stay at least three more to make sure he was moving around well enough to manage at home. So far, he'd been able to get up more each day, but he was only marginally steady on his own, even with a walker. He was going to need intense physical therapy in the days to come to improve his upper arm strength.

While he'd remained active, golf having become his preferred sport, and clearly had kept in shape, her sensory memory knew him differently. It supplied images of the powerful, sinewy musculature of a varsity athlete. She remembered how easily he'd always picked her up, how he'd felt under her hands, her mouth…

_"I like these," she whispered, her lips slipping over the curve of his bicep to suckle. _

_He just laughed at her and ran his fingers though her hair while she inflicted a love bite._

… and now he could hardly hold himself up at times.

And he wouldn't let her touch him. Or any of the staff. He even fought Wilson, who he trusted and depended on as much as anyone.

He was fighting everyone about everything.

Always calm, cool, and collected before, Stacy was struggling tremendously to take the repeated, venomous, verbal barrages that House leveled at her, and his cutting refusal of _her_ touch. She was his lover and she loved him and he could barely stand her being in the room. She was like salt in a wound for him.

"I didn't want this," he'd repeated his declaration to Cuddy from a few days earlier, to Stacy, last night. He'd bellowed it and it had reverberated so loudly that Cuddy had heard it clear out at the nurse's station. She'd winced at hearing the pain in his voice, a pain that went beyond the physical.

God, Cuddy wanted him to just calm down and talk to her, or Stacy, or someone.

_No, _Cuddy thought, _that's not what I want. Not really. What I want him to do is lay down and close his eyes and let me run my fingers through his hair until he falls asleep, gently even if he could not be wholly at peace. _

But that would be wildly inappropriate as his boss, and as a woman. It wasn't her place. She didn't always wish it was. But sometimes she did. When he hurt, whatever the pain, that's when feelings and desires born from their shared past stirred most and deepest for her.

She didn't know what she was going to do when she reached him, until she did and saw him pushing away the hands of his nurses as he ripped the IVs from his veins. That just plain pissed her off and she let him have it.

"You're a goddamned idiot!" she blasted him, appalled at the commotion.

He went still and the nurses backed away as he shot daggers at her, his gaze so intense it nearly knocked her back, like a physical force. But she stood her ground. He'd shown her she could do that against anyone and anything and he might be about to regret it.

"Everybody out," she commanded and her staff obeyed. She looked at Wilson. "You, too. Out. And stay out."

"Me, too?"

Pure, biting sarcasm. She ignored House's question and watched Wilson eye her with concern. He glanced to House and back before sighing and leaving.

"I want out," House said once Wilson was gone and he sounded like a spoiled child. He'd been acting out like a spoiled child in some ways. She understood why, and while his anger was justified, his petulant behavior with her and the staff was not. And right now, he was being petulant.

"You are not leaving this hospital until I sign off," she said sharply, hoping to send the message that she was beyond serious. "And I won't sign off until you can make it to the door and back, twice, on your own."

"With the walker?" he asked and she suddenly had a sinking feeling she'd just unintentionally issued him a challenge. It was how things worked with them, always had. She'd momentarily forgotten that.

"Yes," she said. "Without stopping."

He looked furious at that caveat, but he reached for the walker anyway. She shook her head, her eyes looking at his arms, where blood was trailing away from the former IV sites.

"Nuh-huh," she said. "Not until those are tended to."

He released the walker and reached for the sheet and started to rip it.

"Don't you dare," she snapped, moving toward him. "I'll do it and you're going to let me. Now sit still."

To her surprise, he did as she asked and let her bandage him. But he didn't calm.

Cuddy could feel the anger radiating off him and the frustration that was undoubtedly choking him. She wanted to ease him but didn't know how. The ways she would have done so in the past weren't options now.

"I don't want her to come back," he said as she was wrapping gauze around the first site. His voice was tight with emotion, and anger wasn't the prevalent one, although it was a close second to the grief she heard.

_Stacy._

Cuddy understood but…

"She didn't cause the infarction, House."

"No," he said and sounded so exhausted. She had no doubt he was.

She glanced at him and saw him was looking down at his injured thigh. She looked, too, and saw a few spots of blood and serum staining the big bandage that covered it. He'd yet to let her see it beyond the few times she'd checked him while he'd been sedated. She wondered if he'd torn something but, before she could ask, he spoke again and his words lanced her through and through, and so did the bitterness that saturated them.

"But she made me a cripple."


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7**

"Did you forget this was my idea?"

Cuddy hated reminding him. She hadn't wanted to, but she didn't want him to forget that it was her _compromise_ treatment that had left him like this. He could have chosen amputation and been dealing with something entirely different, probably easier really, in the long term.

He looked up at her and his expression was not one of bitterness or anger, but earnest and open. She quickly looked away at seeing the man she loved there. She didn't see _him_ often, only a few times since he'd moved to Princeton. And appropriately so.

"You were doing your job," he said as she busied herself with taking care of his self-inflicted wounds. "She…"

"… didn't want to you die," Cuddy said when his voice trailed off.

In her peripheral vision, she saw him look away again. But he hadn't contradicted her.

"I wanted to," he confessed and she paused in what she was doing, her eyes falling shut at hearing him say it aloud. She'd known. Stacy had known. He'd made it clear in his refusal of amputation and desire to undergo an extremely risky procedure with a minuscule chance of saving the function of his leg. But the way he was saying it now…

"Why?" she asked, not sure if it was wise or not.

She looked at him again when she saw him look up at her. He was confused, his expression one she'd seen before, more than once. He gave a little shake of his head.

"I don't know."

God, the way he was looking at her was bringing old feelings to the surface way too fast. She was seized with the intense desire to take his face in her hands and kiss him softly and tell him everything was going to be okay. He saw her struggle and looked away again, finding the strength to do so as her own waned.

"I need to get out of here, Cuddy," he said, frustration returning to his inflection. "I feel like I can't breathe. I need air and away from all … _this_."

Cuddy finished taping off the bandage then moved to the next injury, pressing a small piece of gauze to the wound to help further stem the bleeding. As she did, she offered him a compromise, even as she wondered if he would tire of her middle-ground suggestions.

"If you don't push it today and give me at least one more day here, I'll take you outside myself, or Wilson if you want," she said, feeling the need to make sure he had an option on chaperones because she doubted he'd let staff do it. "It'll have to be in a wheelchair, but we can go to the roof if you want. You can have it to yourself."

"Not afraid I'll jump?" he asked and she was instantly upset and angry and…

"Don't, House," she said. They were the only words she could find to express the cauldron of emotions boiling inside her at just the suggestion that he would take his own life. Especially not after he'd just told her he'd wanted to die and he didn't know why.

She turned her body so that she could still work on his arm, but keep him from seeing her face. She didn't want him to see the excess moisture in her eyes, not yet tears but threatening. But her actions allowed him to do something she hadn't expected or prepared for — other physical contact.

Her breath caught when he leaned his head against her arm, just above her elbow. She was infinitely glad the blinds were drawn all around the room, including the door.

She welcomed the quiet intimacy it represented, wrong as she was to do so, and even as it broke her heart.

"I hurt, Cuddy," he said after a few moments. "And I'm tired."

"I know," she said then foolishly let her arm ease down to hang at her side. It was an invitation she shouldn't issue. But she did, feeling that he wasn't just hurting and tired, but lonely. He had a girlfriend who loved him but he was lonely. And so was she. And she couldn't help herself.

Which is why she guiltily rejoiced when he just touched her fingers with his and whispered softly, "I'll stay."


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8**

"Stay with me?"

Her heart had fluttered at the invitation. She'd looked at him across the front seat of her car as he drove them back to Ann Arbor, returning from Thanksgiving in Trenton. He hadn't found any bells to wear, but he'd held her hand as they'd walked to the car.

Then he'd held her foot on the drive home, his thumb caressing the bottoms of her toes through her warm, woolen socks.

He'd cast a glance in her direction when he asked the question, his expression one of hope and longing, feelings she'd shared. Staying with him until he had to go… She'd wanted that and told him so. He'd smiled and looked back to the road and idly massaged her foot the rest of the way.

Cuddy was touching his toes now, although not in the same manner as he had hers, then. On her knees in front of him, she was slipping a sock onto his foot. He'd not wanted them until he was seated in the chair, for fear of losing traction as he moved from the bed. But the weather had taken a turn toward cool today and she didn't want him to get cold.

"Wilson on his way up?" she asked, glancing up at House.

He wasn't looking at her, but somewhere across the room, a furious scowl marring his features. He looked nearly ten years older than he had at the start of the week.

"He's stuck with some dying cancer kid. I'm waiting in line," he said, clearly unhappy with his friend.

Cuddy understood, but she also understood Wilson's obligations. House, if he weren't in his current state, would understand that, too, at least in his own way.

"Would you like me to take you instead?"

"You have a hospital to run," he said but didn't look at her.

Dismissive. Withdrawn. _On the road to depression. _

"True," she said, trying to strike a light note. "But you see, yesterday, I hired a flock of flying monkeys…"

He tried not to smile. He really, really did. But he couldn't stop it. When he looked at her after unsuccessfully suppressing the little curling at the corners of his mouth. She raised her eyebrows, throwing down the gauntlet of verbal thrust-and-parry.

"You are a wicked, _wicked_ woman."

She flashed her eyes at him.

"Now where to? Roof or the lawn."

"Where are your monkeys?" he asked.

"Oh they're everywhere."

"Clinic admit desk? I have always suspected that Nurse Jeffries has no heart."

"That'd make him the Tin Man," she said. "Not a flying monkey."

"True, no tail. Or roller skates," he said as she flipped down the footplates on the wheelchair. He put his left in without issue but she steadied him as he lifted the right. He grimaced with the effort.

"You looked?" she asked, trying to distract him from the pain.

"Only a glance," he winced as he settled his foot on the plate. She knew he was feeling the pressure all the way up his leg and it was likely settling into his thigh.

"Okay?" she asked after a second.

When he nodded, she stood and went over and opened the door to his room. She came back for the chair and her patient.

"What about Wilson?" she asked as she released the brake and began wheeling House out into the hall.

"Cowardly Lion."

Cuddy smiled and leaned down by his ear and whispered, "Is it the hair or ex-wives?"

"Hair," he said. "The ex-wives and present wifey qualify him for the Scarecrow."

Cuddy snorted. It wasn't seemly for a employer to engage in this kind of conversation with and about employees, but if it made House happy, she'd play along for a bit. And she made the decision on where to take him once they entered the elevator. The roof. He would prefer the solitude.

After she pushed the button for the top floor and moved back behind the chair, he tilted his head back and looked at her.

"What about me, oh rider of brooms and hirer of winged primates?" he asked.

She smirked. "Easy. You're the Great and Powerful Oz."

He looked at her a moment then agreed with a breathtakingly bright expression that she hadn't seen in what seemed like a lifetime. Her heart beat a little faster at the sight, then she snorted when he verbally replied _exactly_ as she'd expected.

"You're right. That one was too easy."


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 9**

They were flirting and they both knew it.

And it was clear when they both began to feel guilty.

They grew quiet and stopped making eye contact, beyond the occasional stolen glance. They still talked here and there, but the playful ease of earlier had faded. Mostly, House closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun and Cuddy shamelessly gazed at him when he did.

He was still in pain — the tell-tale signs were there in his brow and around his eyes, the firm set of his jaw — but he seemed to be breathing a bit easier. At least deeper. His color was definitely better than it had been yesterday.

He had a decent tan for New England, she mused, then her heart fell. All the things he'd spent outside doing to earn it would never be the same for him, and could be lost altogether. Golf, running, biking, riding his motorcycle…

"Whatever you're thinking about over there, stop. You're harshing my mellow."

He hadn't even opened an eye to see her expression, which had drawn into a frown with her thoughts of moments ago. It was now one of … wonder. It's like no time had passed. He still read her like a book, even when he wasn't looking at her.

"How do you always know?" she asked, eyes still on his profile.

"You know the answer to that."

She did. He knew her. All she needed was the right emotional circumstance and time to think, and she'd be off to the races.

"Still predictable after all these years," she said softly.

A corner of his mouth turned up and he cocked his head and cracked open one eye. "Not in everything," he said and held her gaze for several seconds before he unexpectedly winced and looked away.

It wasn't her that had caused that look. And it wasn't his leg.

Looking back over her shoulder, toward the door that allowed access to the roof, Lisa saw Wilson approaching, Stacy in tow.

"Take me back."

Cuddy's attention returned to House. He was looking at her again, his gaze pleading. She could see he knew what position he was putting her in, asking her to be a buffer between him and the woman she knew he loved. But it's what he needed. Her to shield him, as a doctor … and _more_.

Still, she had to ask. "You're sure?"

An almost plaintive "Cuddy" was his answer.

She nodded to him. "Give me a minute," she said then hopped down to meet up with Wilson. Stacy, she noticed, had stayed by the door.

The tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed oncologist fidgeted when he stopped an arm's length away from Cuddy.

"She wants to know if he'll see her," he said, his gestures and tone indicating that he did not like being middle man between the fighting couple.

It wasn't a role Cuddy relished either, for reasons far different than Wilson's. He was a friend between friends. She was a former lover and first love between lovers.

"He wants space," Cuddy told Wilson. "And we can't make him see her. Ethically, I have to abide by his wishes."

"I know," Wilson sighed. He planted his hands on his hips. It caused his coat to flare out. "What do we tell her?"

"I don't know," Cuddy said, then sighed with a little shake of her head, "She's a lawyer. Tell her the truth, from our standpoint as physicians."

"Already tried it," Wilson said then raised one hand to rub his brow. "I've tried everything short of telling her that he doesn't love her. But we all know that isn't true."

Yes. Cuddy knew. And she could only imagine what Stacy was feeling right now. How devastating it must be to be punished for saving his life only to be rejected, at a time when really he needed someone to love and care for him. It was only natural Stacy would want to fix things, make them right so she could be there for him.

It's what Cuddy would want in her situation. It's what she selfishly wanted even though she wasn't the special woman in his life.

Something horrible had happened to him and he needed comfort and Cuddy, for better or worse, didn't know how to not give it to him. And he was letting her give it in little moments and little ways. But he was giving Stacy nothing but his anger and agony. Which made Cuddy feel like an absolute heel.

"Take her to my office," Cuddy finally said to Wilson. "House wants to go back inside. Once he's settled, I'll come down and talk to her."

_Even though I have no idea what I'm going to say._

Wilson gestured in the direction of House. "I can take him if you want to…"

"No, just take her down."

"You going to try to talk to him?"

No. She wasn't. He'd been clear today and he didn't need to be upset any further than he already had been and currently was. But she didn't tell Wilson that.

"Please, just take her to my office."

Wilson studied her a moment then conceded with an "okay."

Once he and Stacy were out of sight, Cuddy went back over to House. He had turned his back on everything and was…

She saw a tear slipping silently down his cheek. Before she could stop herself, she was reaching out and catching it with the backs of her fingers.

He bowed his head in response and didn't lift it the entire journey back to his room.


	10. Chapter 10

**Part 10**

"He still won't see me."

Cuddy was barely inside her office when Stacy said it. It wasn't a question either. She knew. Wilson was sitting beside her, trying to offer comfort with his presence. It was something he did.

"No," Cuddy said then sank down to the chair across from them before saying apologetically, "And I can't make him."

Stacy absorbed the answer then asked, "Is he talking to you?"

Cuddy shook her head. It was a half-truth. House was talking, but not much, and not really about Stacy. And patient confidentiality kept Cuddy from discussing anything more or at length. He was conscious and able to make his own medical decisions, and set his boundaries.

Clenching and unclenching her hands, Cuddy reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. She glanced it a moment before offering to Stacy.

"Please," Stacy read the note aloud. She looked incredibly pained at seeing it, and yet oddly enough relieved. House had chosen only the one word to send to his lover, but apparently it had been the right one. It was a word that he'd used to great effect with Cuddy in the past.

House was not one for pleasantries or niceties, much less exposing how great his need was for anything so deeply personal. If Stacy was wise, she would heed his message and give him what he needed, even if it wasn't a need she could fulfill in any active way.

In that, Cuddy was very much in the same boat with Stacy. Which is why she'd asked House to send at least a message to the woman. He hadn't been happy with her for making the request and she hadn't wanted to do it, not really. She had no will to interfere in his relationship with Stacy, but guilt had ate at her as she took him back to his room.

"You love her, House," Cuddy had said as she helped him back into bed, arranging the covers around his injured leg. "I know you don't want her here now. I understand and as your doctor, I'll keep her away as long as you want. But you do still love her. And she loves you."

He'd gone quiet on her then and kept quiet until she'd finished re-hooking him up to the IVs. She'd felt him thinking and been grateful he hadn't thrown _her_ out of the room for saying anything. But when she finished, he'd asked for a piece of paper and pen. She'd given him both and now she'd just handed the paper to the woman he loved.

Cuddy watched Stacy shudder and let out a sigh that was definitely one of relief. Wilson immediately put his arm around her, offering her additional comfort.

_Words can heal, too, House,_ Cuddy thought, _but they can also cage hope._

"He needs space," Cuddy said softly to Stacy. "Much as we'd all like to push him, we can't. He has to do this in his own time, in his own way."

"I know," the woman said, looking up at Cuddy with a rueful smile. There was a hint of joy in that dark gaze, one Cuddy completely understood. The Carolinas came through in her voice when she added, "He's stubborn. If we push any more, he'll just dig in like a tick on a dog."

"He'll shut us all out," Wilson said and Cuddy knew he was right.

"I know this can't be easy," Cuddy offered to Stacy then made a suggestion. "Have you considered talking to one of the counselor's on staff … just as an outlet?"

"I already have," Stacy said softly.

Wilson's pager went off and he excused himself from the office, leaving the two women alone. Cuddy felt awkward and feared her guilt was showing. Her exchanges with House over the last few days… She loved him, but she couldn't keep doing it. She felt like what she imagined an adulterer would. Which bothered her, because she wasn't really sure she could stop. When faced with his need…

"The nurses said you got him to smile."

It was said with such gratitude that Cuddy felt a bit nauseous. But she held herself together, swallowing around the lump of guilt growing in her throat.

"He gave me an opening. I took it," she said and that was truthful.

"What got him?" the woman asked, curious and clearly happy that House's mood was utterly foul

"Wizard of Oz reference. I insinuated I was the Wicked Witch of the West," she said and smiled at the memory.

Stacy smiled, too, and she seems to be even more relieved.

"He gives you a hard time," Stacy said, then with more gratitude than before, "But you're always good to him. I don't know if he's said it, but he really is grateful for what you did for him. He was out of medicine and lost and … I thought I was going to lose him."

An ache settled deep into Cuddy's chest, and the lump of guilt in her throat turned into a lead brick of guilt in her stomach.

"He's a good doctor," Cuddy said because it was the only thing she could think of. She liked Stacy, if for no other reason than the woman loved House.

"Yes, he is," Stacy said. "But I think you're the first administrator that understands his potential. I don't even pretend to know it fully, but he's got something…"

"Special," Cuddy said.

Stacy nodded then gave Cuddy a knowing smirk, "Of course, that's Greg in a nutshell."

_Yes,_ Cuddy thought. _It is._


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 11**

Lisa Cuddy quickly stepped out of the shower in her home to answer her phone. It had been ringing incessantly for the last couple of minutes. If it'd been her pager, she would have gotten out sooner. That would have meant a hospital emergency. But this caller, whoever it was, seemed determined to drive her up the wall.

A call would come in, there'd be five rings, then they'd stop and the cycle would start again. And again. And again. Only one person would do that. Only one person _ever_ did that sort of thing to her. It was a game he played from time to time.

After grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her, she answered the infernal device.

"What do you want?" she sighed into the receiver.

_"World peace." _It was a joke, but his voice did not carry an ounce of actual humor. It was tight with pain. _"But I'll settle for morphine."_

"How bad?" she asked, wanting a number.

He might want morphine, but they were trying to wean him off the heavy stuff since he was going home in a couple days. He was supposed to have gone yesterday, but a fall that wrenched some stitches loose had pushed back his discharge. He hadn't complained about it, which told her it was bad — or he didn't want to go home to Stacy. Either way, that wasn't her most pressing concern.

_"Morphine bad,"_ he replied.

"Put the nurse on," Cuddy sighed. She heard a fumbling of the handset then one of her nurses on the line. "When was his last dose?"

The nurse told her and she gave an order for a booster and then to resume Vicodin on an adjusted schedule. The nurse handed the phone back to House then.

"Okay, you get your morphine, but it's back on Vicodin after."

_"Thank you,"_ he said and hung up.

Worry dogged Cuddy as she returned to her shower. Enough that even though she'd planned to actually spend her Saturday doing personal things, she decided to go in and do a personal check-in on House. She rarely took on regular patients any more, except those she worked with in the clinic, but House was hers. By default and choice.

The staff just didn't like him. His arrogant and caustic demeanor put people off and that dislike had started _well before_ the infarction. Now, with him in such a foul mood, they were avoiding him like the plague. Even the nurses were reluctant to go into the room with him. Not that she blamed them on some level, personally. As their employer, though, she was required to make sure they did their jobs where he was concerned. His bark was worse than his bite, anyway, and she'd told them that.

Wilson knew. And House tolerated Wilson. And Cuddy. But others… His intolerance had grown exponentially over the years since she'd known him as a student in Michigan.

He'd confessed to Cuddy in the midst of all this that she was the only doctor he trusted. She was flattered by that. She knew he didn't give trust lightly, to anyone, which is why he was so angry at Stacy, and why Cuddy couldn't and wouldn't abandon his care to anyone else.

He could yell at her but she'd yell back. He could insult her and she'd call him an ass and let it roll off. Sometimes it hurt, but for the most part it didn't because she understood him and largely, it wasn't personal. But no matter what played out between them there was respect and a connection that was unspoiled and allowed them to forgive.

No one understood that. How she could take it and throw it back and not be hurt by it, or fire him for it. The staff definitely didn't understand the latter. They thought she excused his behavior because he was a medical genius who had brought some prestige to the hospital on several occasions, which had made her look good to the board.

In actuality, it had nothing to do with hospital politics. She was just letting him be himself, irreverent and egotistical, a sarcastic ass, and reigned him in when necessary. It made him a human relations nightmare but she knew how to handle him and smooth the feathers he ruffled. The other deans who'd hired him had not and kicked him to the curb.

Of course, if she hadn't taken the hippocratic oath and hurting, she probably would have kicked him … somewhere … after she arrived at the hospital and found him in his room, changing the dressings on his thigh. He was sitting on the side of the bed, hunched over to do it.

"What are you doing?" she asked, quickly moving forward, seeing him straining to wrap the wide gauze around his thigh. Sweat beaded his brow. He was clearly hurting. He shouldn't have been after the morphine.

"What does it look like?" he said, throwing an annoyed look her direction.

Cuddy shirked off her light jacket and tossed it with her purse into the chair near the bed.

"Will you let me help?" she asked, noting that he'd already covered the actual wound and she couldn't see it. She grabbed up a pair of gloves.

He surrendered the gauze to her once she was ready. She took it and over what he'd started.

"You understaff on weekends," he said as she worked.

"That's not news. You know we try to discharge stable and ambulatory patients before weekends, which means less staff needed," she said then asked, glancing up at him, "So what did you say to the nurse?"

His eyes were shut and he was frowning fiercely.

"Haven't had a chance to say anything. They haven't come back since you ordered the morphine," he said.

Granted it'd only been about an hour since she'd given that instruction, but they should have at least come by to check his vitals after pushing the powerful opiate. It irked her that they hadn't, but in fairness, they might have been caught up with something critical. She made a mental note to find out but finished tending to House first.

"You didn't want to wait?" she asked.

"It was itching. They left the kit out. I'm a doctor. Pretty sure I can't claim malpractice on myself if I screw it up."

Itching was generally a sign of healing, but not always.

"How did it look?" she asked, ignoring the sarcasm.

His eyes opened then and he looked at her. The little shake of his head told her two things. One, the doctor in him saw no infection. Two, the man didn't want to tell her what it actually looked like.

House was vain in his own way, but she didn't think unpleasant aesthetics were at the root of why he didn't want her to look, but what the injury represented to him. He hid parts of himself, the dark and wounded parts. He always had. This one just happened to be on the outside. _A reminder of the inside._

That was a painful thought for her to consider. She could only imagine what he felt every time he looked at it. Every time someone else did…

"You should let the nurses help, but I'll make sure there's always a kit available if you want."

"Thanks."

She saw the true gratitude in his pain-clouded gaze. The presence of that pain concerned her. He _really_ shouldn't still be hurting as bad as he appeared to be.

"How bad is it?" she asked.

"I'll manage 'til Vicodin-time," he said, then made a gesture with his head toward the door. "You should go enjoy your weekend."

He was serious but winced even as he said it. The little clenching of muscles at the corners of his eyes deepened the fine wrinkles there.

"How am I supposed to do that when my patient is in pain?" she asked him, looking down to cut and then tape down the bandage.

"You wouldn't be here for just any patient," he observed as she set the scissors and gauze aside.

"No," she said softly then braved, "But I would be here for a friend."

His gaze flickered with emotion. Then he looked down and away shyly before thanking her for the third time of the day. _That might just be a record_, she mused.

"You're maxed out right now short of my sedating you," she said of the medicinal situation. "But is there anything else I can get you? A puzzle or game? Food _not_ from the cafeteria?"

"Wilson's coming later with Chinese," he said and she thought perhaps he was dismissing her, but he followed up with a request. "But I could really go for a Reuben."

"Cold, no pickles," she said. A smirk was her reward for remembering and she returned it.

Straightening then, she stripped off the gloves and touched his shoulder. "Let's get you comfortable."

"Comfortable is a relative term, Cuddy," he said as he slowly swung his left leg up on the bed. He reached for the right then, broad hands grasping just beneath his knee to lift and carefully swing up onto the bed. She didn't help him — though she desperately wanted to — knowing this part he needed to on his own. He would have to when they discharged him.

Once he was settled, she eased up to bring the covers up. He shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the pillow, still frowning.

God, it hurt her heart to see him like this.

Out of pure, unchecked instinct, Cuddy found herself reaching and running her fingers through his hair at the same time she kissed his temple. She startled herself by doing so and drew back quickly.

For a moment, just a moment, she'd forgotten. She'd felt exactly like the young woman she'd been in Ann Arbor, desperately in love with him and filled with a need to comfort him.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have," she said when she saw him looking at her, almost stunned.

He didn't say anything, so she continued her retreat. Turning and gathering her things, she told him she'd be back with a sandwich, and set a swift course through the hospital to her car.

There, she grasped the steering wheel, bowed her head, pressed her brow to her knuckles, and tried to gain control of her breathing and stop her head from spinning.

She'd be damned if she was going to hyperventilate or pass out on the grounds of her own hospital.

Even over Greg House.

Even if she loved him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 12**

Flames licked and curled around the logs in the fireplace.

As fall neared, the temperature dipped some evenings to the point of quite cool. Tonight was one of those nights, and Cuddy was actually glad it had. It gave her the excuse to do exactly what she was doing: sit close to the hearth, a glass of wine in hand, the fire's warmth caressing her skin.

Sitting next to her was a backlog of files and reports that she'd spent the evening reviewing and signing. Her half-eaten supper on a blue plate sat atop it. The wine bottle was perched on the brown brick of the low hearth.

While the fire hissed and crackled, Cuddy let her mind drift through the events of the day, which had started out nice enough but ended in a jumble of emotions. The paperwork had eased some of her distress, but not completely.

She'd kissed House.

Not on the mouth. Not in a way that implied an intent to seduce. But it had been no less intimate. And neither had the way she'd brushed her fingers through his hair. They'd been things a lover might do, gestures of caring, comfort and, yes, love.

The memory of that tender moment made her shiver, even as the fire warmed her.

It shouldn't have happened.

It had been enormously awkward when she'd returned to him a short while later with the Reuben he'd requested — well, that she'd offered to go get. She'd considered not doing it but ultimately, she hadn't been able to just _forget_ what she'd promised. He probably would have understood if she had. He might have even preferred she'd done so.

He'd been distant when she'd returned. Not cold, but his guard had been up. That had been hard to see and feel. She would rather face the full brunt of his rage than his distrust.

She'd kept things as professional as possible as she set the food up for him then checked his chart and made a few orders for the nurse. He'd nodded his agreement with her pain management plan and thanked her for the food before she left.

"Call me if you think another adjustment would help," she'd said as she picked up her purse. Only then had she dared a direct look at him and his gaze had been waiting for hers.

"Will you be back tomorrow?" he'd asked and she'd heard his uncertainty in even asking the question. As if he didn't know if he should, and torn on how he would feel about her response, positive or negative.

"I'll check in," she'd said. "But if you need…"

She'd let the rest go unsaid because he knew… He _knew_ that if he needed anything at all, she'd do her best to make sure he had it. He had to know because he knew her. His eyes had told her he did and she'd taken strength from it, enough to actually leave the room and not stand there and stare at her shoes.

"I'll have my phone and pager," she'd said then and he'd bid her _good night_, so softly.

"Good night."

Cuddy whispered the words now to the memory of his blue eyes staring across the room at her. He'd looked as lost and conflicted as she currently felt. And there was no doubt as to why.

She was his doctor … he was her patient.

He was her employee … she was his boss.

They were friends … but necessarily formal.

They shared a connection … but it was not indulged.

They had been lovers … now they were not.

She loved him … he loved someone else.

Today had muddled all that in some form. An innocent kiss and caress had unleveled the playing field they'd silently and delicately built in his first months at Princeton.

It had been a joy to see him again on a regular basis, even if she was no longer the love in his life. He gave her hell on a regular basis, but she secretly loved butting heads with him, the challenge of matching wits. Sometimes it was as fun as it was frustrating.

Now they were going to have to work their way back there, somehow. Because she respected his relationship with Stacy. Because distancing themselves to the point of excessive formality would only add to the current awkwardness and impede their ability to work together. And she needed them to be able to do that, and not just for professional reasons.

No one would believe her if she told them that his insanity was sometimes the best part of her day. While she enjoyed the challenges of administration and relished those times would she could make a huge difference in patient care, there were times that some of the daily tasks were … _mind-numbing_.

House was never mind-numbing. And she liked the unpredictability of him, even if she sometimes cursed his timing or wanted to pull her hair out when he'd go overboard and take things just a little bit further than she was prepared to allow on that day.

Sorting out his messes could be a nightmare, but for all the messes he created, he also did amazing things. He saved lives out of the most bizarre, often critical cases. He was doing what she'd witnessed in Michigan, only with a confidence born of experience and not just knowledge. It was extraordinary to watch and she always felt a sense of pride in him that was perhaps not hers to feel — but solely his own.

She felt so privileged to have seen the beginnings of how he practiced medicine. To have worked alongside him even then.

That's why they had to fix things. She knew what he could do. She needed to be in a position to help him do it, and to step in when he needed to be checked. She was his biggest cheerleader, shield, referee, and sometimes obstacle. If things weren't right with them, then they might both be out of a job.

Cuddy wondered if they should just finally sit down and talk about the past and decide on a course of action. But even as she entertained the notion, she dismissed it. They'd never planned a damned thing in their relationship. To start now, would likely be a disaster.

Opening her eyes, Cuddy looked at the fire once more and smiled for the first time since the morning.

"We'll find our way," she said softly. "We always have."


	13. Chapter 13

**Part 13**

"Hey, Lisa, there's a guy at the door for you. Says he has a delivery."

Lisa Cuddy had stepped out of her room in the two-bedroom apartment she shared with her freshman roommate. After finishing up her undergraduate studies, Cuddy had decided she'd had enough of dorm life and wanted to get out on her own. Economically, though, she'd required a roommate and had landed Andrea, a pre-med student whose parents had footed the bill for her off-campus housing.

Hearing the obvious appreciation in Andrea's voice had made Cuddy curious and suspect that the delivery guy was drop-dead gorgeous or something.

_He is_, she'd mused when she'd reached the entry to the apartment, where Andrea still stood, flirting. It had been Cuddy he'd given the appreciative gaze to, though. She hadn't returned it, but had smiled politely and taken the clipboard from him to sign for the package — a _huge_ one.

"Where do you want it?" the guy had asked after she'd given him the clipboard back.

Not knowing what it held, Cuddy had just gestured to the living room and stepped back out of the way.

The guy and his partner had lugged the box in while Andrea's eyes continued to devour them. She'd checked out their toned butts and arms. Cuddy had noticed them, too, and found herself amused that she had. She hadn't been blind to the existence and attractiveness of the male of species since House had left but honestly, she'd been too busy with other things to consider pursuing one.

Plus, she had figured Greg House would be a hard act to follow.

That theory had proven after the guys had set the big, brown box on the floor and handed her an envelope.

"Want us to open it up?" the one had asked with a gesture to the box with his knife. She'd guessed they thought two girls on their own wouldn't have one. They'd been wrong, but she'd let them continue to play _macho_ while she'd opened the envelope. She'd broken out in a smile upon reading the handwritten note inside.

_"__Congratulations, soon-to-be Dr. Party Pants. Knock 'em dead. Or not. Doctor and dead people, unless you're a forensic pathologist, isn't all that good an idea. Hippocratic oath and all that stuff. — Dr. Bookstore Guy"_

Cuddy had looked up as the delivery men pulled the last of the cardboard away to reveal a desk. It had been simple, tasteful, and perfect. Tears had welled in her gaze.

"It's from that guy, right? The one you don't talk about but think about all the time?"

_Astute_, Cuddy had thought of her roommate. "Yes," she had said softly, touched and amused and…

"House…"

Sitting behind her new, tasteful but admittedly less simple desk in her office at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, Cuddy said his name softly, just as she had that day, not a month after Detroit.

In her hand, she held a note that could only have come from him.

It had arrived while she was out to lunch, tucked into a yellow, sealable envelope tagged as it a patient file with about a dozen blank sheets of paper. The note was written in marker on a gauze pad. The words were ones he'd said to her before, long ago.

_You did nothing wrong._

Smiling, Cuddy shook her head and set aside all but the note down. It was silly and sentimental and completely him. And it reinforced her thoughts from the other night, that they would sort things out in a way that was anything but the norm for the rest of the world.

Cuddy caressed the gauze gently with her fingers. House knew how to cut to the heart of the matter when he really wanted to, and his instinct to protect her from herself apparently hadn't waned in the years apart. She was grateful for that.

A knock on her door had her carefully tucking the note in the center drawer of her desk before calling for the visitor to enter.

Wilson.

"He's talking to her."

"Who's talking to who?" she asked, feeling as if she'd come in on the middle of a conversation.

"Stacy. House asked to see her about an hour ago," Wilson said.

Right after Cuddy had left for lunch. Timing. He knew her schedule. He always did. She suspected he had an inside track on that but she hadn't figured it out yet. But she would.

As to the news, Cuddy had mixed feelings. She felt relieved, but also a sense of loss. Both were genuine, but she consciously choose to concentrate on the former.

"That's good news," she said to her chief of oncology, House's best friend and, she thought, a growing friend to her. She began busying herself, reaching down for one of the items in her inbox, hoping the contents would let her distance herself from any inappropriate thoughts or feelings about what was going on upstairs.

"Yeah, so long as we don't have to call security," he said as he stood in front of her desk.

Cuddy glanced up at him, concerned. "They're fighting?"

"It's … tense," he said, cocking his head and looking down at her as if he was waiting for her to do something.

She gave a little shake of dismissal and _again_ looked back to the file. "We can't get in it. It's something they have to sort out."

"You're not worried he'll … pop a stitch or something?"

"No," Cuddy said, as she pulled her executive pen out of the holder on her desk. "Trust me, he won't do anything that would stop his discharge today."

"You're discharging him?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't I?" she asked as she skimmed over the scheduling report and continued talking. "The fall from Friday aside, he's moving around well enough with the walker and as of yesterday, he indicated that the pain management regimen is finally taking more than the edge off."

"Are you serious?"

Cuddy sighed and looked up at an incredulous Wilson.

"The wound is healing. There are no signs of infection or bleeding. He says the pain is tolerable and believes it will continue to lessen," she said. "He wants to go home and, at this point, I have no reason to keep him here."

"If you say so," Wilson replied with pure sarcasm.

Cuddy was flat out annoyed at his reply.

"If there's something you're not telling me or that I need to know, then stop beating around the bush and spit it out," she said. "I have work to do otherwise."

He just looked at her a moment before saying, "I think you should go up and see your patient."

"I saw him this morning," she said. "His vitals and color are good. What has changed that I need to go up now?"

"Just go see him," Wilson said then turned and left her office.


	14. Chapter 14

**Part 14**

Cuddy hadn't wanted to heed Wilson's direction for no other reason than he was being weird about it. But, ultimately, she hadn't been able to ignore it. House was her patient and she hadn't signed him out yet.

So she went up and she was glad she did, even as she cursed Wilson for not telling her what she would find.

House was diaphoretic, a sure sign of obvious pain — or worse. And he was alone in the room. She'd expected Stacy to be with him.

"When did this start?" she asked House as she advanced to the bed he occupied.

He looked at her, clearly surprised to see her but also relieved.

"About 20 minutes ago," he said through clenched teeth.

"Why didn't you page the nurses?"

"Been pushing this damned call button for the last five minutes," he said, showing her that he held it in his hand. That meant Stacy had left before that.

"What happened?" she asked, as she sequestered her fury at the staff. She'd deal with them later.

He just shook his head but the look in his eyes told her he wasn't going to answer.

Since he'd already been disconnected from the monitors in preparation for discharge, she pressed two fingers to the inside of his wrist to take his pulse. His heart was racing and from the strength of the pounding…

Reaching into her lab coat pocket, she extracted her stethoscope and put it on.

"I'm fine, Cuddy," he said as she did. "I just need something for the pain."

She ignored him and opened the gown to listen to his heart.

"Just get me some—"

Cuddy cut him off with a sharp "shhh" and listened. Lungs were clear. Heart definitely pounding away. His blood pressure was probably out the roof. Putting away her stethoscope, she hooked him up to the blood pressure cuff and grabbed a kit from the cart beside the bed and began putting EKG patches on his chest.

"I don't need that," he complained and started to pull off the first one she put on. She covered his hand with hers.

"Leave it," she said. "If you hope to get out of here today, let me do this."

He moved his hand away and took the patches and began putting the others on, all those except the places he couldn't reach. She took care of those then hooked him up to the monitors and slipped the pulse oximeter on his index finger.

She reviewed the information coming through and so did he.

"See, all good, except for this damned _pain_," he declared.

"Right. That blood pressure is totally normal," she said sarcastically. "I seem to recall you had a_ heart attack_ last week. Remember that, you idiot?"

"I diagnosed it. While _having_ it. Remember _that_?"

She shot him a look but grabbed up his chart and checked when he had his last dose of pain meds. I'm going to give you a round of morphine."

He let out a frustrated sound. She looked up at him.

"I have no intentions of staying in your hospital for another night," he complained.

"House, we need to get this under control," she said in no uncertain terms.

"Then give me more Vicodin and I'll rest for a few hours," he said and she clearly saw his desperation to go. He didn't want to be _here_ any more and she didn't blame him. But more than that, she saw his _need _to get out.

Lisa sighed.

"Okay, a shot of ketorolac and you stay while we get your heart rate and blood pressure down. If that doesn't work, then you get morphine and stay another night. If it works, I'll up your Vicodin prescription and you can go home."

"Vicodin," he said, announcing his decision, prematurely in her opinion. But she answered positively.

"Will Stacy be there?" she asked as she pressed the call button on the wall panel and ordered a dose of ketorolac, stat. He didn't need to be alone for at least a few more days and she wasn't sure what had transpired between the couple.

"I'm going to Wilson's," he said.

"Does Wilson know that?" Cuddy asked, entirely skeptical considering her earlier conversation with the other doctor, and desperate to keep the current one away from Stacy.

"He will."

He grimaced as he said it, making her glad the nurse had arrived with the requested medication. Cuddy sent her out and grabbed an IV kit.

"House, you can't show up on his doorstep loaded up on Vicodin," she said as she gloved up.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because it's rude, and he has a wife, and probably a dozen other socially valid reasons," she said and felt his eyes on her as she quickly prepped his arm and applied the tourniquet.

"Not going to list them?"

That question made her realize he was using their exchange as a distraction. So she continued the banter while starting the line, the way he'd taught her back in Michigan.

"You know them. You just don't like social convention," she replied.

"He won't be able to resist helping," he said, returning to the subject. "He's a mother hen. Don't tell me you haven't noticed he leaves feathers wherever he goes lately."

Cuddy snorted as she taped the IV tubing into place then hung the saline bag on the stand. "Yes, I've noticed. What's with that?"

"Guilt," House said. "He's thinking about cheating on his wife. So he's overcompensating with me."

Cuddy rolled her eyes then prepped the ketorolac, drawing it into a syringe. She injected the potent NSAID into the port cath.

"I'll put it on a slow drip," she told him as she disposed of the syringe and then her gloves. She pressed the call button again and asked them to page Wilson.

"If this works and _if _he says 'yes', then you can go. But you have to wait for him to take you," she said, moving back to House's bedside and catching his gaze. "If this works and he doesn't agree, I'll discharge you, but you have to stay with someone, at least for the next few days. If this doesn't work…"

"I know, morphine and bunk over. But this will work and Wilson won't let a buddy down," House replied. "He's pathologically incapable. I'm needy. He needs to be needed."

Cuddy gave him a little smile, having no doubt he was right about Wilson. He was rarely wrong about people. She wanted to ask him about Stacy but didn't know how to broach the subject, considering that he didn't want to go home.

Instead, she told him to try to rest and relax and let the medicine work.

"Talk it over with Wilson," she said then asked, "Can I get you anything else?"

"A new leg," he said and she felt a jolt of pain in her own body, her heart.

She rested her hand on his for a moment. "I wish I could." _God, how she wished she could._

"I know," he said then turned his hand over and gently clasped hers. He looked at her earnestly, whispered, "Thank you, Cuddy."

Cuddy nodded, understanding that his thanks was for more than the last few minutes. Not able to form the words to reply as she normally would, she gave him a little smile of acknowledgment and understanding.

He released her then and she eased away and out of his room.


	15. Chapter 15

**Part 15**

House stayed with Wilson for about a week before he returned home to Stacy.

That had been about a month ago and Wilson had kept Cuddy filled on House's physical status — and some personal details Cuddy really didn't care to know. Wilson, bless him, was clueless to her discomfort with being told the ups and downs of House and Stacy's relationship. She had never taken Wilson as daft, but something definitely had him preoccupied enough to miss the signs of her _disinterest_.

Cuddy was beginning to believe House hadn't been joking when he'd said that Wilson was considering an affair. Or maybe he was having one, she thought. But _that_ wasn't any more her business than whether or not Stacy had bought House a "classy cane". If the woman was taking care of House, that was the most important thing to Cuddy.

"… but I don't know how longer she can put up with the mood swings. He's all over the place, and now he's quitting physical therapy."

At that, Cuddy's ears perked up. She had been content to begin mentally writing a report she had to give to the board next week and pay only the degree of attention necessary to nod or make the appropriate sound of acknowledgement as Wilson talked. But what he'd just said did concern her, as House's doctor, especially the latter.

House had pretty much ignored the discharge follow-ups, including wound checks. She'd pretty much expected that, so she hadn't worried, figuring he'd let her know if there was a problem. She'd made him promise as much and made sure he had medication to manage his pain.

As for physical therapy, he'd enrolled before he'd checked out of the hospital a little over a month ago. But this was the first she'd heard of him not keeping those appointments. Admittedly, though, she hadn't chased after him to keep them. He was on medical leave and a big boy and didn't need her nagging him while he worked on things with Stacy and reordered his life to cope with the changes and challenges brought on by his loss of mobility.

While he'd been doing that, Cuddy had been working on re-establishing the routine of her life. She'd done well on the professional front, but not so much on the personal. She missed having House popping into her office all the time. She was still having dreams about him occasionally — but those had been with her for two decades. And sometimes memories surfaced when she saw or heard or caught a scent that reminded her of him. It wasn't that she obsessed about him, but he was often in her thoughts in one form or another.

And he was in them now, Wilson's present revelation having brought to mind the memory of how House would neglect himself when things weren't going well in his life. And exactly how far he would let that neglect go.

She didn't like the reminder of that, at all, and stopped Wilson who was still talking.

"When did you see him last?"

"A couple days ago. He won't take my calls now and tells me to go away when I knock on his door. I think I may have pushed him too far."

"Stacy?" Cuddy asked, wanting to know if House was alone or not. From what Wilson described, she'd say he probably was.

"Up in Short Hills today to meet some new client or something," Wilson said, sounding deadly serious when he added, "I'm worried, Cuddy. I've never seen him like this."

Worry wasn't what Cuddy felt, alarm was. Red flags were going up everywhere in her brain.

"I'll call him," Cuddy told Wilson.

"He may not talk to you," the other doctor warned.

"He will or I'll fire his ass," she said.

"I don't think you can fire him for—"

"Maybe not for what he's doing now, but trust me HR has enough complaints from the staff to justify it," she said. "Now go. Take a deep breath, take care of a patient, and let me handle House for now."

Once Wilson conceded and left the office, clearly frustrated, Cuddy tried calling House. It went to the machine. She left a message telling him to answer the phone, hoping he was screening the calls.

After five attempts, including one message that threatened him with losing his job, with no response, her alarm reached critical mass. She had to go find him and see what sort of mess he was in. Because he was undoubtedly in one.

Grabbing her purse out of her desk drawer, she fished out her keys and headed to House and Stacy's place. She instructed her assistant that she had a family emergency and wouldn't be back.

Just in case.


	16. Chapter 16

**Part 16**

Cuddy had only been to the upscale townhouse twice. Once for a holiday dinner. Once for a small dinner party.

Both times, she'd been dateless while the rest of the guests had been couples. She'd been the ninth wheel but not surprisingly, House had been more miserable than she'd been.

The people at the table had been intelligent but the self-important topics of conversation — the difference between tan and beige, the effusive discussion of a local artist who made things out of dead vines, the best places to eat sushi, what the hot plays in New York were — had been more than he could handle after a while. She'd been able to hold her own because small talk was something she'd had to master as a fund-raiser for the hospital, but that didn't mean she liked.

Both times, after about twenty minutes, he'd excused himself and made his way out to the front stoop. With the kitchen and dining in the back of the place, he'd been away from the banal and pompous discourse and found some peace.

Cuddy knew where he'd gone because she hadn't made it much longer than he had and found him there on her way out. The first time they'd just shyly wished each other a good night while he sipped a whiskey. The second time, he'd been nursing a beer.

"Had enough?" he'd asked as she stepped outside and pulled her coat around her against the night chill.

"I have a limit," she'd replied.

"I'm shocked, Ms. Dean of Medicine," he'd smirked. "I figured you could go all night on that."

"Not if I want to retain brain cells," she'd smiled then apologized for sounding ungrateful for the invitation.

He'd just shrugged. "It's honest. And scientifically accurate. Probably. Think I can get a grant to do a study on the effects of supercilious conversation on the life of brain cells?"

She'd liked that and teased, "You get that grant, I'll let you do the study."

"I'll start preliminaries in there," he said, gesturing toward the door with his head. "Should be able to get enough to write up the proposal."

She'd smiled at that. She'd missed his sense of humor the years they'd been apart. Still smiling, she'd looked back and up at the building and studied it. It was nice but…

"Not exactly _me_, is it?"

"No," she'd said and watched her breath become a gentle fog. She hadn't been entirely surprised that he'd divined her thoughts.

"It's Stacy," he'd said.

Cuddy had seen that then, and she saw it now as she parked in the lot in front of the building. It was _stylish_, something no one would ever accuse House of being.

Shutting off the engine, Cuddy took a couple of controlled breaths before she exited the car and walked to the entrance of the home. She knocked on the door several times before making her way to the small on-site office. She found the superintendent there and showed him her hospital credentials. She explained that she had a patient that she hadn't heard from and was unable to reach, and wanted to know if he would let her in to do a welfare check.

He was reluctant since he knew Stacy was a lawyer, but Cuddy assured him that she just wanted to make sure House, who was also a doctor at the hospital, was okay. That if he was not at home, she would leave immediately. He agreed and walked her back to the town home.

She waited anxiously as he unlocked the door, trying not to wring her hands. When the man started to call out for House, she stopped him.

"Let me," she said and stepped just inside the entryway. She could see the living room and it looked immaculate, which she hoped was a good sign. She called out to House and waited.

There was no reply.

Much to the super's consternation, Cuddy went farther into the home. He tried to get her to stop, but she had a potential patient in distress. Her hippocratic oath extended beyond any measure of the law. Plus, she knew neither House or Stacy would prosecute her for her concern.

She searched the first floor, suspecting that climbing stairs probably wasn't something House was attempting yet. But there was no sign of him. That really worried her, but she didn't stop looking, making her way through the kitchen and over to the bay window that overlooked the property's small yard. She breathed a sigh of relief when she sighted House there. He was sitting in the sunlight, lounged in a chair, his face turned up to the sky.

Forgetting about the super, Cuddy went out to join House, to see if he was okay. She realized as she moved closer that he was not. He was very _not okay_.

Rushing forward, she felt for a pulse in his neck. It was there, thready and weak. She looked at his arm…

"Oh God," she breathed then shouted to the super, "Call an ambulance."

The man disappeared fast and she moved just as quickly, her heart racing with fear and horror as she pulled the syringe from the bend of House's elbow.


	17. Chapter 17

**Part 17**

For the second time in nearly as many months, Lisa Cuddy was riding in an ambulance with Greg House as her patient, this time with sirens wailing through the streets of Princeton.

She was watching his vitals on the monitor, obsessively double-checking his pulse with her fingers, at his throat, and then at his wrist, and then at his throat again. Between those observations, she was listening to his heart through the stethoscope she'd commandeered from the EMT who sat across from her.

Everything was dangerously low and slow. They had him on oxygen and hooked up to an IV to get fluids into his system.

Cuddy borrowed the young man's penlight and checked House's pupils.

_Pinpoint._ "Damn."

"What did he take?" the EMT asked when she handed the light back.

"Morphine," she said sternly. Where he'd gotten it… The prescription had Wilson as the physician. Cuddy was livid. He hadn't told her he'd prescribed that. "He's on a pain regimen for a recent muscle excision," she said, not telling them that he wasn't supposed to have the drug. She'd deal with that later — with House _and_ Wilson.

But she had to get House through this first.

"Radio the ER and have them stand by with activated charcoal and naloxone. Have them page Dr. James Wilson to meet us," she ordered the EMT who followed her instructions.

"Goddammit, House," she muttered, laying her hand atop his head and gazing at him with worry that went all the way to her bones. _What have you done to yourself?_

So pale. So cold. _So_ _loved_.

"Stay with me," Cuddy whispered, as she stroked her thumb across his brow. "We're almost there."

An alarm went off. Cuddy looked, respiration drop, pulse ox plummeting. Eyes returning to House, she saw a blue tinge around his mouth through the plastic oxygen mask.

"We've got to bag him," she said and quickly pulled the mask up and away. While the EMT readied the bag, Cuddy leaned over and pressed her mouth to House's in a way she never had before. To give him the breath of life.

Later, she would cry. But now, just now, she held onto her emotions and gave him two breaths of her own before letting the EMT take over with the bag.

She found House's hand as the young man did his job. Looking toward the front of the ambulance, she asked, "What's our ETA?"

"Two minutes," the driver called out.

"Radio and tell them he's going to need intubation," she told him then watched the monitors. His vitals were holding steady now, but still suppressed.

Morphine and Vicodin. _What the hell were you thinking, House? You know better._

And that's what scared her. He knew what he'd been doing. He was too smart.

He wanted to die, rather than live without a leg or in pain. He'd said that to her just weeks ago. God, she hoped this wasn't…

But if it was, why hadn't he reached out? She would have been there in a heartbeat, damn what anyone thought or said. She would have done whatever was necessary to get him through it. And she would do it now.

"Whatever it takes," she said under her breath, to him, as the ambulance came to a halt in the bay. She released House's hand and moved to the doors as the hospital personnel opened them. They helped unload the gurney while the EMT continued bagging House.

"Oh God." Wilson, mortified. "Where did you find him?"

"Backyard," she said, her tone clipped. She was furious with him and stalked past and into her domain. No one questioned her as she gave orders. The attending on duty intubated House On her instruction and they set him up with the hospital monitors and began giving him the naloxone.

When Wilson came up beside her, he asked what House had taken. She just reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the vial that once held a clear liquid. She put it in his hand and glared at him.

"You should know."

The man was clearly shocked by her words and demeanor, then at what the label on the vial said. "I didn't write this," he said, shaking his head. He looked at House, back to the bottle, then to Cuddy. "I didn't write this, Cuddy," he said, lowering his tone. "I wouldn't. Not with the Vicodin."

Cuddy looked to House and felt her stomach sink. He hadn't…

"Do you think he tried to … kill himself?"

The question was whispered in Cuddy's ear, low enough no one else would hear. She didn't have an answer. Only the man in the bed fighting for his life did.

"Call Stacy," Cuddy said, the logical part of her mind kicking into gear as the rest of her reeled with the very real possibility that the man that they all loved had tried to end his life. "She needs to be here."

"Okay," Wilson said and moved away, leaving Cuddy to watch over House.

As she did, she prayed — for the first time in longer than she could remember — to a god he didn't believe in.


	18. Chapter 18

**Part 18**

His breath was warm. It rushed softly across her skin as he grazed his lips over the swell of her breast.

His mouth was hot. It gently encased her soft flesh as his tongue danced around her nipple.

His right hand was tender. It skimmed over the length of her back as his left braced her hip.

His erection was hard and thick. It filled her as she rocked in the cradle of his body.

Sex. Lovemaking. Sensuality. Love. Connection.

She kissed his temple and whispered his name and told him she loved him. He came up and captured her mouth and told her to ride him, to let go and just take what she wanted.

She did, arms around him, cradling his head to her chest as her loving desire drove them both to bone-splintering climaxes.

Then she was under him, her body moving with his toward another end.

End after end after end.

He touched her. Kissed her. Loved her. Until she was coming completely apart.

And then he was moving away, being pulled from her body's embrace. She tried to hold onto him, but he slipped out of her and beyond her reach. He closed his eyes in surrender after telegraphing her a look of apology.

_No!_

"No!"

Lisa Cuddy jolted awake, the sound of her own cry wrenching her from the nightmare ending to what had been a beautiful dream.

"You okay?"

Hearing Stacy's voice had Cuddy immediately sitting up and moving quickly to the bathroom in House's room. She shut the door and vomited the contents of her stomach into the toilet. Sick with guilt from the dream. Sick with grief from the dream. Sick with fear for and of the man in the other room.

Her House. Her love. She hadn't seen him, or even Stacy's love, when he'd woken in the ICU. He'd been disoriented and combative. He'd been lost, just lost, and she could only hope he came back to them.

He'd come so close to dying, and the reality of that had her puking again, dry heaving until she was exhausted.

A knock on the door.

"I'll be out in a minute," she managed then flushed the toilet and moved to the sink.

Running cold water, she cupped her hand and filled it. She used the water to rinse out her mouth then wet a paper hand towel under the faucet. She used it to dab at the corners of her mouth. She tossed it aside then wet another and held it against her throat as she took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm her diaphragm, esophageal and abdominal muscles.

Once she felt sufficiently calm, she emerged from the bathroom and apologized to Stacy. The woman was sitting in a chair at House's bedside, watching him with a clearly heavy heart. Cuddy had been in the chair on the other side of the bed, farther away though.

Stacy dismissed her apology as unnecessary and again asked if she was okay.

"Yes," Cuddy said then did her best to pull on her physician's mask so she could check her patient.

Stepping up beside his bed, she noted his vitals were better and he was beginning to get some color back. She reviewed his chart, pulled a pen out of her coat pocket and made notes. She then checked the IV, adjusted the drip slightly.

"We fought."

Cuddy shut her eyes, glad her back was to Stacy. She didn't want to hear this, but the woman kept talking.

"We haven't talked in so long. It's just yelling now. Or silence. He's cruel and cold and so distant he might as well be on another planet."

_Exhaustion._

"I excuse it because I know he's hurting, and I'm to blame for that. And he's right to blame me for it. I made a selfish choice, to keep him with me, and he's paying the price."

_Guilt._

"He's been in so much pain, Lisa. I begged him to talk to you. But he said he could handle it, that Wilson was helping." Her voice was a rasping whisper. "I didn't know he was doing _this_."

_Grief._

Cuddy felt all those things, too, and between her own emotional burden and Stacy's…

"Cuddy?"

Opening her eyes, Cuddy saw that House's were open and on her. "Yes," she said, relieved to see _him_ in the rich, icy blue of his eyes. His lids were heavy with sleep stilll.

She set the chart aside and asked him how he was feeling. He slowly raised his hand up to her and she took it out of reflex, as if they were the only people in the room.

He whispered to her then, words that held special meaning between them and always touched her heart. And she was unable to stop that from happening, even with Stacy not five feet away.

"I want to just sleep."

"I know," she said softly. "You should rest."

His eyes opened a bit more when he asked her a question.

"Will you stay?" It was a plea.

Her heart breaking for him, for herself, for the woman near them, Cuddy nodded then gently lowered his hand to the bed.

"Just rest," she told him and watched him close his eyes. It wasn't but a few moments before he drifted back off, looking perfectly at peace. An expression that sent her mind tumbling back to a more innocent, less confusing time.

Her fall into memory was halted, however, at the sound of the room door opening. She looked not to see Wilson or a nurse entering, but to see Stacy exiting.

It was Cuddy's heart that fell this time. Into a pit of guilt big enough to swallow the whole world.


	19. Chapter 19

**Part 19**

As soon as Cuddy was sure House was asleep again, she slipped out of the room to find Stacy.

She felt terrible that the woman had witnessed House's reaching out to her. He hadn't even asked for or about Stacy, if she was even there, and Cuddy could only imagine how she'd felt about that.

Cuddy didn't have to go far. She spotted Stacy on one of the benches on the far side of the nurse's station. She was sitting up, her head leaned back against the wood-grain wall, her eyes close, her fine features marred with emotional misery.

Easing quietly over, Cuddy sat beside her. Stacy immediately started speaking.

"Did I do this to him, Lisa? Not just the leg, but _this_?"

"You didn't put the syringe in his arm," Cuddy said, her heart going out to the woman beside her, almost as much as the man in the other room. "You didn't push the morphine."

Stacy couldn't have foreseen this but Cuddy should have. She knew him better than either Stacy or Wilson suspected. With the continued discord at home coupled with the pain…

"_This_ isn't your fault," Cuddy said. "I should have been more proactive in following up with him."

Stacy straightened, shook her head, and looked at Cuddy. The brown of the lawyer's eyes communicated misery, but also clemency, making Cuddy start to feel nauseous again.

"He had Wilson, Lisa. He's a doctor. He knows all this stuff better than even I know law," Stacy said, mournfully. "Marry that to _exactly_ how stubborn he is … the _son of a bitch_."

Cuddy agreed with the sentiment. She was as mad at him as much as she loved him and was worried for him.

"Tell me about his pain," Cuddy entreated.

"He's miserable, all the time," Stacy said with a hint of hysterical laughter. "He spends most of his time in the office. He sleeps on the couch, or at least tries to. He only watches TV or just stares out the window. He won't use the walker, even on really bad days. He doesn't want to use anything. Not a crutch or even the cane I bought him. _That_ he threw in the garbage. He just takes the Vicodin and now _apparently morphine_."

Stacy's voice was trembling now.

"Nothing I do helps, Lisa. He just pulls further away no matter what I try." Stacy told her, looking up the ceiling. "Hell, we don't even have sex any more. He's not even interested and that's so _not him_."

Cuddy hadn't wanted to know that. She took no pleasure in knowing it. But House's lack of sex drive screamed out to Cuddy exactly how poorly he was coping with _everything_. Sex was his how he communicated his emotions best. It was how his emotional needs were met.

"I don't know what to do any more, Lisa. He nearly bit my head off when I even suggested counseling, yesterday," Stacy continued. "But he needs it. He's in a deep depression. I want to help him but…"

"He has to want the help," Cuddy interjected, "And right now he doesn't."

"No," Stacy said, tears slipping from her eyes. "Not from me at least. But he trusts you, responds to you. Maybe you can get him to do something other than hurt himself."

Cuddy would definitely be talking to him, about a lot of things.

"I'll do everything I can," Cuddy told the woman and meant it. She didn't want him to continue down this path. Wilson had communicated some of this to her, but nothing he'd said had indicated things were so bad that House would do this to himself. And if it was bad enough he'd forged a prescription…

Reaching over, Cuddy took hold of Stacy's hand and assured her of the one thing _she_ was certain of in all of it.

"You didn't do this to him," she said softly. "He can be angry at you about the leg but _this_. _This_ was his choice."

Stacy nodded even though Cuddy wasn't sure she believed her. But that was to be expected of the friends and family of people who attempted or committed suicide. Cuddy was well-acquainted with guilt in its many forms, now this one.

"Go rest," Cuddy said then, seeing exhaustion consume Stacy. "I can prescribe you something if you need it. Or Wilson can. Just try to rest as well as you can."

_I'll pick up the pieces here._

"You're a good friend," Stacy said, so wearily. "He's always said you were, to him, back in Michigan, and that you were compassionate and fair. It's why he came to you for a job."

Feeling intensely uncomfortable with the compliment and mention of the past, however innocuous, in light of _things_, Cuddy deflected gently, "Have Wilson drive you home."

"I'm going to a hotel," Stacy said. "I don't think I can go back there right now."

Cuddy could understand that. "Then call me with a number where I can reach you, as soon as you have it."

"I don't know if he will even want it, or me."

Squeezing the woman's fingers, Cuddy assured her, "You're giving it to me, not him. I'll make sure he has it when he's ready."

"You're optimistic," Stacy said on a short, tight laugh.

Her stomach churning, Cuddy tried to shore up Stacy's confidence, and corral her own, deeper feelings for House.

"He loves you, Stacy. He might not be acting like it, but he does. If he didn't, he wouldn't have come back home."

"I don't think it is home for him. I don't know that he knows where home is at all," Stacy said, confusion evident. "I suggested that he might want to call his parents but…"

_That was a huge mistake,_ Cuddy thought.

"…they don't get along well," Stacy continued then began to explain, unnecessarily, "He was adamant that he didn't want or need them here. He was furious with me for even bringing it up."

Cuddy wasn't the least bit surprised. His parents were the last people House needed right now. She'd seen what their one and only visit to Michigan had unleashed in him. She wanted that toxic influence nowhere near House

"We have to abide by his wishes," Cuddy said. "The surgery. We took that choice away from him to save his life. But the other things, we have to let him decide."

"Even suicide?" It was a rhetorical question.

"That falls into saving the idiot's life category," Cuddy said. "I can never and will never condone that and will do everything I can to convince him that is _not_ an option."

And she would.

"But you should go rest now," Cuddy continued. "Just let me handle things here."

Stacy nodded. Cuddy wasn't sure the woman felt any more comforted or not, but just talking to her had provided valuable insight into her and House, and what they'd both been struggling with. Not the intimate relationship details, but the overview of things that would guide Cuddy in responding as a doctor.

She needed that perspective because the flip side of that coin, she knew very well and was in danger of indulging simply because she couldn't bear seeing him in such pain, physical and emotional.

She never wanted him to hurt. Ever.


	20. Chapter 20

**Part 20**

It was raining out.

Lightning flashed across the night sky, highlighting the edges of the dark clouds that hovered over Princeton.

Lisa Cuddy sat in a chair near the window of Greg House's private hospital room. She had caught up on paperwork about an hour earlier and since made her way upstairs from her office.

She'd been in and out of the room through the afternoon and early evening. She'd called up and checked periodically while she'd taken care of some pressing hospital matters.

Now she was keeping watch for the night, as she'd promised Stacy, as she'd promised Wilson, as she'd promised House. _As I promised myself. _

He had woken a few times since she'd settled in, but had drifted back off to sleep whenever she'd assured him she was there. Usually all she had to do was tell him, but once she'd gone over and held his hand until sleep claimed him again.

He was so exhausted. She had no clue when he'd slept last, but she suspected it had been days. It's probably why he'd taken the morphine. She knew it was why he was sleeping so much now — that and she'd put him on a slow steady drip of ketamine, just enough to let him rest. She was managing his pain with ketorolac in place of Vicodin, wanting him off narcotics and opiates for now.

Cuddy was managing her pain by just being near him. She felt utterly selfish in being where she was — even if Stacy had asked her to be — but she couldn't drum up the courage to despise herself for it, but did have enough to admit that it's where she wanted to be.

After today, finding him as she had, it would have killed her to stay away. She wouldn't have left the hospital no matter what, the couch there serving in absentia of the one that had adorned his apartment living room back in Michigan. She had tried to sleep there that night, after she'd pulled him back together after a weeks long bender. But she'd ended up in his bed anyway, needing to give comfort and find it with him.

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the glass and tried to silence the desire to do just that now. She couldn't. It wouldn't be right, even though, deep inside her, she felt that it could never truly be wrong. She wasn't sure what that made her. She just knew her heart and it was currently beating for the man across the room. And only for him.

He had scared the hell out of her today. She'd never been more terrified in her life, not even when he'd had the infarction and in the intense days following.

The memory of her fear as she'd found him and then watched his body court death during the ride to the hospital…

Emotion knotted and tightened in Cuddy's chest, strained up along her throat and erupted in a soft sound that she stifled by biting her fist. A tear slipped unchecked from her eye and she quickly wiped it away.

She so desperately hoped he had just been wanting to sleep and hadn't been trying to take his own life. The latter she feared intensely, a large part of her believed that death had been on his mind, regardless of true intent. That he would welcome it, if it _just happened_ to be the end result. That made her feel all sick inside.

"Cuddy…?"

The raspy whisper drew her from her thoughts and had her rising and going across the room to his bedside.

"I'm here," she said, catching his hand as he raised it. She curled her fingers around his hand. His fingers were cold, prompting her to bring her other hand up, too, and rub some warmth into them.

His eyes found hers in the pale glow of the lamp above the bed. She had it on its lowest setting, leaving much of the room dim to dark. But she could see him clear enough and knew he could see her from the way he was looking at her.

Or maybe he thought she was a dream, she considered when he reached for her with his other hand, touching a lock of her hair then her cheek.

She shouldn't have allowed the contact. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. But she didn't stop him. She let him reassure himself of her presence then spoke softly.

"How's your pain?"

He seemed to think a moment before answering. "Managed, more or less."

He tilted his head up and looked at the IV stand. "What do you have me on?"

"Ketorolac for the pain, and slow drip of ketamine to let you rest."

He blinked slowly.

"Nice cocktail," he exhaled and she thought he might drift back off to sleep. But he didn't. Instead he squeezed her hand gently and asked for water.

"Okay," she said, releasing him to fix him a cup. She helped him drink from the straw then set the cup aside once he rested his head back against the pillow.

"Think you could eat something? I can get some broth," she suggested.

"Yeah," he breathed even as his eyes drifted shut. She was glad to hear he was hungry but thought he might not yet be alert enough to eat. But she realized he hadn't fallen back off to sleep when he spoke again, so softly, confessing, "I couldn't sleep."

"The pain?" she asked, her heart simultaneously breaking and rejoicing.

Blue eyes found hers and she saw her answer. She nodded in acknowledgement.

"We'll figure something out," she said. "But you need to tell me when you need something. Don't just…"

She saw guilt surface but against all sanity and reason, she offered him the absolution she knew he needed. It would come back to bite her in the ass one day, she was sure, but for now, just now, he needed to know that she just wanted to help.

"Just tell me, okay," she said softly. "I'm here to help."

He reached for her hand again and she gave it to him. He held it gently and drew his thumb across her knuckles in an all-too-familiar gesture of intimacy.

"I wish…"

Cuddy shook her head gently. "You can't… I can't…"

His gaze flickered with understanding and shuttered a measure, a distancing that she knew pained them both but had to be. They both knew where his heart's commitment resided.

"Let me go get the broth," she said then. "I won't be long."

He gave her a little smile and eased his hand from hers with a whisper.

"I know."


	21. Chapter 21

**Part 21**

"He wasn't trying to kill himself."

That was the first thing Cuddy told Stacy and Wilson as they gathered in her office. They both looked relieved. And Cuddy was relieved that House had given her permission to talk frankly with them.

"He hasn't been sleeping, at all," she told them. "He's utterly exhausted from the pain and lack of rest. I still have him on ketamine but we're tapering that and I expect to have him off that by this afternoon. He has agreed to stay overnight for observation as we resume his pain management protocol to see how he responds. For now, though, he is eating, resting, and the pain is under control."

Wilson, who was sitting on the opposite side of her desk, in one of the chairs leveled her with a look.

"Did you ask him about the morphine?"

"I will but I want him more alert when I do. In the meantime, I've reminded him that _I_ am his primary care physician and that he needs to come to me for medication and I'll make sure he has what he needs," she said and meant it. He did not need her scolding him right now. He needed to get better first.

"I've already brought up the physical therapy situation," Lisa continued. "I have set up consults with a pain management specialist and the hospital's director of physical therapy tomorrow morning to evaluate his current regimens and discuss potential adjustments. I want that lined out to the letter before I discharge him tomorrow."

"Is he coming home?"

Cuddy looked to Stacy, hearing the restrained hope in the woman's voice.

"I don't know," she said softly then gave Stacy a sympathetic look. "Right now, he still doesn't want any visitors. He has stressed that he just wants to rest and sleep and, to be honest, it's the best thing for him right now. I'll talk to him in the morning about where he's going once he's discharged."

It wasn't wholly what Stacy wanted to hear, but Cuddy saw her acceptance of it nonetheless. And Wilson's.

"I'll be checking in on him throughout the day and will let you know if anything changes," Cuddy said then, hoping the duo would go grab breakfast or something. She didn't want to be rude or mean, but she needed to take a shower and get ready for a board meeting later in the day.

Thankfully, Wilson took the hint and invited Stacy for coffee in the cafeteria, leaving Cuddy to her personal hygiene and work.

As the day passed, Cuddy periodically checked in on House but otherwise threw herself into her work. It had been her life since graduating med school.

First there'd been residency at Michigan. Then a fellowship in endocrinology at Princeton-Plainsboro, which had allowed her to fast-track her career into administration. She'd seen the opportunity to make a difference at that level and pursued it while she worked on her fellowship. Her ambition had netted her the vice presidency and then, her current job, for a year now, the prestigious post of Dean of Medicine.

Cuddy was proud of those accomplishments, even if she'd fudged on her age to beef up her resume. She was particularly proud of the latter, as she was the second youngest Dean of Medicine in the history of the hospital — and even younger than they knew.

Lisa had loved every step and phase, each had been and was uniquely fulfilling to her professional drive. As dean, though, she had the best of both the medicine and administration worlds. On any given day, at any given point, she had the ability to make a difference in an individual life or hundreds. She always reminded herself of that whenever she was neck-deep in bureaucracy and stressed to the gills.

It mattered. Every part of it. Even the most tedious.

Today, the tedium had helped keep her mind off her worries about House, and the memories of the past that had become all too prevalent since the infarction. They had been persistent last night as she'd watched him sleep, following her into her dreams, again, when she'd finally slept herself.

Since he was stable, she planned to go home tonight and sleep in her own bed. It was the right thing for her to do, personally and professionally. He could call her if he needed her and she'd already given the staff instructions to not neglect him just because he could be _difficult_.

"He's still a patient in this hospital and we will give him the same level of care as we give everyone else. If you have a problem with him, page me or call me. I'll handle it," she'd told the evening nursing supervisor before checking in on House and then heading home with a stack of paperwork to review.

That paperwork was finished now and back in her satchel, which sat on the kitchen table next to her purse and keys, ready for the morning. She'd packed it away just a bit ago and was now preparing to turn in for the night.

She took a quick shower then sat on the side of the bed and applied lotion to her arms and legs. She slipped into a pale-blue cami and shorts to sleep in then shut off the lamp and crawled under the covers. She let out a soft groan as she relaxed for what felt like the first time of the day.

Shutting her eyes, she practiced her yoga breathing techniques, letting the tension slowly ebb from the muscles along her spine and lower back, her shoulders and neck, leaving the ghost of an ache in its wake. That eventually faded, too, but frustratingly sleep didn't come.

Thoughts of House invariably surfaced as she lay in the dark. And they were not the kind she should entertain. She cursed them, knowing that when she did fall asleep, they would resurface there.

God, she loved the idiot. She loved him even though he loved someone else. And she couldn't hate him for that love because she knew some part of him still loved her, too. But he had chosen Stacy to live his life with years before he'd come back into Cuddy's world — nearly five to be exact.

That's just how things were, and she accepted that, even if her heart and mind conspired against her peace with it.

It wasn't jealousy she felt. She liked Stacy. They weren't close enough to be _friends_, but they were kind and respectful of one another. Cuddy didn't know if the lawyer would feel quite the same about her if she knew of her past with House, but that didn't matter. Cuddy had decided to bear the burden of difficulty in facing that. She was the better choice. She had been out of his life longer than Stacy had been in it.

No, what Cuddy felt was far more complicated. She felt the need to help and comfort House. She would alway feel that. It had been branded somewhere in the lining of her heart. The current need, she suspected, was so stringent for her personally because he was not allowing Stacy to care for him. Whether he realized it or not, he needed to let her do that. If he didn't, there would be no hope for the couple's future.

Stacy and House would both pay a heavy price for that. That cost of Cuddy's guilt over her own feelings was nothing in comparison to the pain of heartbreak they would feel.

House did not give his affections easily or lightly. He was a difficult man to know, and even then, it was damned near impossible to know all of him. He kept parts of himself secret. He had, even from Cuddy, close as they'd been in Michigan.

She didn't know to what degree he'd let Stacy in, but until the infarction, she'd had no reason to believe they weren't happy and content together. No one had said anything to her otherwise, but that wasn't a surprise.

House would never discuss it with her, of that Cuddy was certain. And as far as Stacy was concerned, Cuddy had never really been in a place to be a confidant. If anyone had been and still was, it was Wilson. Or maybe one of Stacy's girlfriends. But Cuddy, as House's boss, would have precluded that. Stacy had revealed things to her in the last few days, but House's health crisis had pushed that to the fore.

Stacy's resolve was crumbling, Cuddy feared, and only House could shore it up. So far, he was refusing, choosing instead to punish Stacy through silence or bursts of anger. Through neglecting himself.

As his doctor, Cuddy was in a position to influence him on the latter. On the former, she could try but she was hesitant. And yet, she considered that she might just be the person who could reach him on that front, too. It wasn't something she wanted to get into, but if it motivated him to take care of himself, and let Stacy help him, then it would be worth the personal cost.

Cuddy sighed at realizing what decision she'd just made and seriously wondered if she was being a good friend or if she was just a masochist.


	22. Chapter 22

**Part 22**

"Stay out of it."

On the rooftop of Princeton-Plainsboro, Lisa Cuddy stood next to Greg House. He was leaned heavily against the brick wall around some piece of equipment. He had a crutch under his right arm, having abandoned the wheelchair next to the elevator. He'd walked to where they now stood and it had been painful, so very painful to see. Not even a hint of the athletic grace of his youth remained.

His words were a demand and a plea. And she ignored them carefully, looking earnest at her oldest friend, her dearest friend, her former lover … her first love.

"I don't want to interfere," she said softly, leaning against the wall with him. "You know me, House. You know I wouldn't bring this up if I didn't believe it would help you."

He looked at her, his eyes emotionally pained.

"As your doctor, you are my priority," she continued. "And you need what she can give you, what she desperately wants to give."

_It's what I wish I was in a place to give._

He looked down and shook his head slightly when she whispered, "You need to find a way to forgive her."

"She knew what she was choosing for me."

Heartbreak and resentment.

"She choose life for you," Cuddy said.

His eyes remained averted but she watched anguish contort his face.

"She chose pain. My choice was ignored."

Her heart aching, Cuddy fought every instinct she had to pull him into her arms and hug him tight. Among other things. She couldn't argue with that, but she could offer him perspective that he undoubtedly knew even if he didn't want to face it.

"You were loved. You _are_ loved," Cuddy said. He looked up at her then, searched her gaze for that love. The intensity of those blue eyes caused her breath to catch. She had to look away, but she knew he'd seen her feelings before she had. Because his expression changed, it softened.

"I think you know that," she said. "And if you love her, you need to try. It will not get better if you don't."

She looked up at him and said the hardest part. "And you need that to get better, so that _you_ can get better."

It surprised her when he smirked and his gaze flared with amusement. Both were tempered, though, telling her that other emotions were still in play.

"You're better at this than Wilson."

Cuddy couldn't help but smile a little at his observation.

"Wilson is a good friend to you, but he doesn't know how to talk to you," she said.

He shook his head just once, his gaze leveling her once more with its intensity. "No. He likes to talk _at_ me."

Cuddy had noticed that. And the love, for her, that swam in his blue gaze. It did not have free reign, confirming her belief that he remained committed to Stacy despite everything.

"I want you to be happy," Cuddy told him, her heart longing for him to have that above all else. "I know you've felt that with her. I've seen it," she whispered and watched him look away again. "It's okay to have that again, even after everything that's happened. You just have to do what you know you need to in order to have it again."

He didn't respond and she didn't say anything more on the subject. He had listened, that's all she could ask of him, and now he just had to think, and make a decision. The ball was entirely in his court.

"Do you want to be up here a while?" she asked then and he nodded.

"I'll get the chair in case you need to sit," she said then and pushed away from the wall. She retrieved the chair and brought it to him. She locked the wheels then straightened.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out something she'd bought just that morning, which she'd been putting off for a while: A cell phone. It wasn't anything special, but it wasn't a half-ton, virtually radioactive brick in a bag.

He looked at the device when she handed it to him, then looked up at her, an eyebrow raised in question.

"You know my numbers," she said, giving him a little smile. "Call me when you're ready to come back down."

He nodded and in his blue eyes, she saw gratitude.

She laid her hand on his forearm. The touch was electric so she kept the contact brief, just long enough to give a little squeeze to the still-defined muscles there.

She eased away then, leaving him to his thoughts.


	23. Chapter 23

**Part 23**

House went home and things improved. For a time.

Cuddy knew when it stopped because he quit physical therapy again. And Wilson resumed his regular visits to her office to give her a play-by-play.

According to his friend, House had been steadily working toward patching things up with Stacy. They'd seemed happier and he'd stopped lashing out so much. But something had changed in the last two weeks and the couple had began to spiral back to where they'd been before.

Cuddy hadn't witnessed their interactions because she'd stayed clear of any personal contact and touched base with him on a purely professional level, regarding his health and as his boss to arrange his return from his leave. Her life had returned to the norm, minus House's presence at the hospital. She'd even gone on a date — not that it'd amounted to much other than an unfulfilling, five-minute round of sex.

House had been on leave nearly three months and was due back next week, but now she was concerned that might not happen. Not if what Wilson had told her was about to happen actually happened.

Stacy was planning to leave House. She'd had enough with this last round and wasn't just leaving, she was moving to Short Hills.

Wilson said Stacy had apparently been offered a partnership at a firm that had been courting her for the better part of the last year and she was going to take it. She had apparently suggested that since she tended to work long days, that it would be best if she took an apartment in Short Hills and spend the week there, then come home to Princeton on the weekends.

Stacy had told Wilson that House had "lost it" and launched such a blistering attack that she'd already moved out and was staying in a nearby hotel until she could find a place in Short Hills.

"He's throwing it all away, Cuddy. She wasn't suggesting they break up. She just wants to make a move that's good for _her_ career," Wilson said with an exasperated gesture of his arms. "She left behind a much more prestigious firm in Raleigh, where she was already on track for partnership, because you're the only one who would give him a job. But of course her sacrifice doesn't mean anything. It's all about him."

Cuddy wasn't that sure of that. There was no way to lay the whole of the blame on House. It took two to make a relationship. Surely it took two to break it.

"There has to be more to it than that," Cuddy said, even though she really didn't want to have the conversation, for more than one reason, but the seething presence of her chief oncologist gave her little choice but to at least try to calm him down. The other reasons she'd think through later.

"Oh no, it's all about his leg and how she's leaving him after _making_ him a cripple," Wilson replied.

Cuddy winced. She wasn't surprised to hear that that particular psychological wound had yet to heal. It was going to take a great deal more time than a couple months for House to overcome what he saw as an intrinsic betrayal of his trust. One that he was going to bear the pains and scars of, literally, for the rest of his life. It was unrealistic for Wilson or Stacy to expect otherwise, and dismissive of the validity of House's feelings.

The latter kinda pissed her off. His feelings were real and valid whether anyone agreed with them or not. Of course, how he chose to express them could have been as damaging as the words themselves.

With a sigh, Cuddy set her pen aside and stood up from behind her desk. She walked around to where Wilson was pacing. She took hold of his arm and guided him over to the couch along the wall.

He sat heavily, his arms flopping down, his wrists coming to rest atop his knees, hands dangling over. She sat beside him and studied him as he looked at the floor and shook his head.

"I know he's your friend," Cuddy told him. "And that Stacy is, too, but you have got to separate yourself from their relationship. Whatever does or doesn't happen between them is theirs to sort out."

"I know." He sounded defeated, looked up at her. "But you didn't see him last night, Cuddy. This is not good. If she goes…"

And he finally said the one thing that wouldn't let Cuddy stay out of it. He'd also revealed where his loyalties ultimately lay and they were in the same camp as hers.

'What's he done?" she asked, fearing the answer.

"Let's just say he's added copious amounts of alcohol to his pain management," Wilson said. "I took everything out of the house, but he's probably replenished by now. All it takes is a phone call to get more since some idiot legislator decided liquor stores should deliver."

Mother hen. House had called Wilson that and he was right. Of course, she shared his concerns.

"Is he still at their place?" she asked.

"He yelled at me to go away. I hopped the fence at lunch to see if any of the doors and windows were unlocked."

The image of Wilson casing the townhouse looking for a place to enter, not to mention jumping a fence was enough to amuse Cuddy for all of two seconds, before her worry moved back to the fore.

"What about a key from Stacy?" she asked.

"She's in Short Hills, apartment hunting."

Cuddy's heart sank. "Is she going to try at all?"

Wilson's gaze was deadly serious.

"Is he?"


	24. Chapter 24

I want to extend a big thank you to everyone reading and commenting. I am very glad you're enjoying the story so far. It is the most emotionally complex story I've ever written and definitely a challenge. I am doing my best to keep things "real" in terms of interactions and characterizations.

I know that some readers have questions about why House would be with someone else since he still loved Cuddy. Essentially, it's about distance, physically and metaphorically, and time. It's absolutely not a lack of love, or that Cuddy wasn't and isn't important, or that he was weak willed for moving on with his life.

Ten years apart is a _long_ time, especially, as a guest commenter pointed out, when you consider that communications and travel were very different from today.

In the epilogue of Michigan, they established that they still had feelings for one another, but they had also already realistically distanced themselves - and that took place around two years after he left for residency in North Carolina. By the time House sees Cuddy again, around eight years have passed. It's reasonable to believe that in that time, he could have met someone else and have fallen in love - a different kind of love than he'd shared with Cuddy - and built a relationship with that person, Stacy.

In Michigan, almost from the outset House and Cuddy knew their lives were at very different stages. While he was preparing to begin his career, she had really just begun her education and still had medical school and residency to come - the latter two a 6- to 7-year, singularly life-consuming commitment.

During that time, House committed to Stacy. His commitment is with her when he re-enters Cuddy's life and it stays there until he and Stacy part. That's how it should be because that's who they are, imo.

Now, onto this part ... it's a long one. Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Part 24<strong>

Lisa Cuddy feared what she was going to find when she entered the townhouse that House and Stacy shared.

Just moments ago, she'd passed Stacy on the way into the parking lot. The woman had been so distraught she hadn't noticed Cuddy. She'd just pulled her black Mercedes out onto the street and drove away.

Earlier in the day, Cuddy had pretty much decided to not come over, but to call and see if House would talk to her. But as morning moved into afternoon, and afternoon into early evening, she couldn't forget Wilson's mention of House's excessive alcohol consumption. That was a terribly bad idea in conjunction with the Vicodin and she remembered all too well how dangerous booze could be on its own with House when he was in emotional distress. And he was clearly in distress by Wilson's account, and based on what she'd just seen, she didn't see how he couldn't be.

Even still, Cuddy debated the wisdom of what she was doing as she pulled into the space nearest the building, prompting her to keep reminding herself that she was House's doctor and that she was just here to make sure he was okay.

_Yeah, keep telling yourself that. One day you'll believe that's the whole of it. Maybe._

Shutting off the engine, Cuddy exited the car and went to the door of the home. She raised her hand to knock but thought better of it. He had locked Wilson out, and if the door wasn't already locked, he was liable to lock her out if she alerted him to her presence.

To preempt that, Cuddy grasped the doorknob and turned it slowly to see if the lock had been engaged. Her breath caught and her heart beat a little faster when she realized it wasn't. She tried to brace herself for what she was going to find inside but nothing could have prepared her for what happened in the seconds after she stepped into the home and shut the door behind her.

"Back to try again" came House's voice from the back of the home. It was sharp and hot, like the blade of a knife. "Don't bother. Mount Gregory isn't mountable, remember? Hasn't been in weeks. Even I can't…"

He limped into the hall from the home office and went dead silent and still when he saw her, and she…

_Dear God._

He was standing there stark naked, save for a compression bandage over the injury on his thigh and the crutch under his right arm. Every inch of his frontside was visible, even in the shadows of the hallway.

Stunned, Cuddy stood there for several moments, staring at him as he stared at her, trying to summon words, an apology, a coherent thought. But all she could think was that despite his drunken, wounded, and disheveled state, he was beautifully made, just as she remembered.

Pulling herself together, she averted her gaze as a flush went through her, the wrongness of the situation at war with the inherent rightness her heart insisted upon.

"I'm sorry. I should have knocked. I just came to make sure you're okay." She was babbling. "Wilson—"

"Is a premature, wrong-gendered biddy."

His sharp declaration was followed by a shuffling sound and thud. Cuddy quickly looked up to see that he was falling, that the crutch already had. A string of profanity fell from his tongue as he slammed his hands against the walls, spanning the hallway in an attempt to keep himself upright. The effort was only marginally successful. In his inebriated state, he was unable to shift his weight to his left leg quick enough, and the pressure on his thigh…

Seeing the injured limb tremble fiercely and the knee start to buckle, all sense of embarrassment and timidity vanished. Cuddy dropped her purse and went to him. She ducked under his arm to offer him at least some measure of support. He took it, leaning against her heavily. His weight pushed her against the wall and he went with her, groaning in agony.

Distress radiated from him as he leaned his head against the wall. His breath was coming in labored gusts near her ear. She ignored the feel of his body against hers and the potent smell of liquor, and prayed to God that his leg didn't give way completely. She honestly had no idea how he was still standing. She couldn't see his leg in their positions, but she knew it had to have been bearing more weight in a way that it shouldn't with his injury.

"You need to sit down," she said. It was a stupid thing to say but he didn't verbally eviscerate her for pointing out the obvious. Instead, he cursed himself as useless and damaged, and told her she should have just let him fall and left him there.

"Like hell," she snapped, angry at the mere thought. "I didn't fight this hard for your life to leave you drunk and in pain on the floor, not to mention wallowing in self pity. Now let's get you back into the office."

He didn't argue or lash out. He just breathed heavily and winced his way through the pain as he pivoted until he was facing her, both hands now flat on the single wall. For a moment, just a moment, his body was pressed full against hers. She didn't look up. She didn't breath. She stayed focused on what she needed to do, waiting until he pushed himself away enough for her to move and get the crutch.

She helped him get it back under his arm and again waited for him to ready himself to move. When he did, she stayed as close as she dared as he hobbled his way back into the office.

Once he reached the couch there, he sat, his face a mask of misery as he descended. She grabbed what looked like a fresh blanket from the back of the couch, unfolded it, and handed it to him after he'd settled and set the crutch aside.

He took it from her, shame rising in that intensely expressive gaze. She shook her head and told him she'd be right back. She retrieved her purse from where she'd dropped it minutes ago then returned to the office then. She found he had haphazardly covered himself with the blanket and was now opening a bottle of Vicodin.

"How much have you had to drink?" she asked, noting exactly how red-rimmed and bloodshot his eyes were, and that it wasn't all due to the alcohol.

Not surprisingly, her question sparked his indignation anew.

He let out a scoffing grunt. "I can still see straight, so I'd say not enough."

"You've had more than enough," she countered. "Your liver is probably—"

"Just fine," he growled. "And for the record, you're worse than Wilson right now."

She shot him a look.

"You won't think that in a minute," she said, reaching out to stop him from popping the pills and dry swallowing. Curiosity sparked, when she told him to wait.

_Good. Get curious_, she thought. _It's better than him raging against himself, Wilson, me, and whoever else came to mind._

"Lay down," she directed as she set her purse on the chair that had clearly been used as a nightstand. It held an alarm clock, a book, and his reading glasses, all within easier reach than the end table when laying down.

Reaching into her purse, Cuddy pulled out something she'd packed, just in case.

"You are _so_ not Wilson," House said when he saw what she'd brought. He was still sitting up. "He just bitches and leaves. You bring cool stuff."

"It's not that cool," Cuddy said then again instructed him to lay down. She watched him and noted it hurt him every inch of the way. And that made her hurt. "And the jury's still out on whether or not I'm going to bitch."

He let out a cynical little laugh. "There is no jury with Wilson."

"He's worried," Cuddy said as she knelt beside the couch and pulled the other items out of her purse. She opened an IV kit and gloved up. "And so am I, for the record," she said as she swabbed the bend of his elbow with an alcohol pad.

"You both worry too much," House complained. She felt his eyes on her — always did — but went about her task, setting aside the wipe then inserting the needle into a vein just below the bend of his elbow.

"But him more," he continued. "You don't mother hen. You're more like Superman. You show up and save the day. Or is that Mighty Mouse?"

His anger had faded and Cuddy heard the invitation to play their game and couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever played it with Stacy. The thought of the woman made her feel guilty but Cuddy accepted the invitation anyway. She would just think of it as part of his treatment.

Glancing up at him, while she prepped tape to secure the cath and IV tubing, Cuddy asked, "What about Wonder Woman?"

He shook his head. "You're too short. She was an Amazon. But you'd rock the outfit."

"If I'm too short to be Wonder Woman, I'm definitely too short to be Superman," she pointed out the flaw in his logic and refocused her gaze on what she was doing. She picked up the IV bag full of yellowish fluid and laid it beside his head, making it slightly elevated above his arm. She'd place it somewhere higher after he was hooked in.

"True," he agreed. "But you're definitely not Wasp."

"Wasp?" she asked, keeping him talking and distracted as she connected the bag to the catheter.

"Super-heroine. She shrinks. She grows. She has wings and a mean sting," he said then paused a moment before continuing, "Come to think of it, that could be you. Except for the shrinking-growing thing. And the wings. Maybe it's the sting and high-powered fashion sense that make me think of you."

Cuddy snorted in amusement in spite of the situation. "You're an idiot," she said, flashing him a smile as she shook her head.

"You like idiots," he said, a bit of a smirk emerging.

"Apparently," she said under her breath then pushed herself up from the floor and looked for a place to put the bag above him. She decided on the bookshelf behind the couch. The fact the piece of furniture blocked the lower half of the shelves told Cuddy that it had not originally occupied the room. She suspected it had been brought in to accommodate House. The room afforded him a measure of personal privacy and there was a TV. She'd noticed a minute ago that the desk had been shoved out of the way, too.

Leaning over the couch and her patient, Cuddy placed the bag on the highest shelf she could reach and adjusted the drip to get the fluids into his body. They would help relieve the intoxication and replenish the nutrients in his system. She had no idea why he thought that was _cool_ since she was sobering him up. She was just glad he wasn't fighting her.

That done she looked down to find her patient watching her with curiosity. "I didn't think doctors made _house_ calls any more. Especially not Deans of Medicine."

"I have an idiot patient," she reminded him and looked down to see that the blanket was only across his groin. He was going to cool down as the fluids entered his system. She wanted to adjust the material to cover his legs, too, but…

Screw it. She didn't want him dislodging the IV or pulling the bag down from the shelf. She summoned as much professional detachment as possible and reached for the blanket. She saw the tremor in her hand and cursed it. He saw it, too.

"It's nothing you haven't seen before," he said.

No, it wasn't but she would be lying to herself and him if she said things weren't weird. She hadn't seen that part of him in years. Even in the hospital, the staff had been the ones to undress and catheterized him for surgery and after. Then there was Stacy.

"It's not working too well these days," he continued as she carefully unfolded the blanket and arranged it over him, trying to keep his exposure to a minimum. "But I guess you saw that already."

"House," she said softly, wanting him to stop this part of the conversation from going further.

"I'm a bastard, Cuddy," he said and she heard his anger at himself. She ignored it.

The blanket settled, she returned to her purse and pulled out a vial and syringe. "We get some of the booze out of your system and I'll give you a shot of this."

"Morphine?"

Something about the way he said it bothered her but she pushed it aside.

"Ketorolac."

"Okay." Slightly disappointed but relieved.

"You have to eat something, too," she said, making that part of the deal. "Because I know you haven't been."

His irritation returned, in the blink of an eye. Alcohol-induced mood swings were not pleasant, especially when the drunk had disposition issues already.

"How would you know?" he challenged her.

She sighed and looked him directly in the eye.

"Because you don't eat when you're like this," she said and hating that she knew. He wasn't too happy about it either from the look he gave her.

"Now you sound like a mother," he grunted in what he meant to be disgust but was largely a cover for pain. Her mind registered his word choice and found it interesting that he'd said _a _mother, not _my_ mother. She kept it to herself, though.

"Actually, House," she responded, not bothering to hide the fact she was annoyed with his belligerence. "I sound like someone who gives a damn about you. And I'm not the only one."

"Some people have _funny_ ways of showing it," he said, his gaze turning frosty. "Personally, I find it hysterical to maim others out of love. Or tell them that I can love them only two days out of the week. Or how about—"

"You shut up."

He stopped at the sharp command. She had wondered if he would.

"I'm going to go make you something to eat. You be quiet and rest. We're not talking again until you're sober."

And with that, she walked out of the room and went to the kitchen.


	25. Chapter 25

**Part 25**

The rhythmic creak of leather filled the quiet of the room as she moved over him.

It was wrong.

She shouldn't.

He shouldn't.

They shouldn't.

But it felt so right.

Her lips brushed his. The kiss was not hers to give but he accepted it. As she accepted what was not hers when he offered it.

The lush caresses of his mouth … she'd missed them, his taste, him.

She felt joy and pleasure at knowing him again, at being _them_ again.

She was careful of his wound as she took his erection in and out of her body.

She loved that part of him. It no longer rose for his lover, even for his own hand. But it had risen for her and now it filled her fully, perfectly.

"House," she breathed, as she pushed herself up and took him deeper.

He moaned and took her breasts in his hands. He caressed them, thumbed her nipples to aching points. When she opened her eyes, she saw…

A black pool of soul-sucking guilt. It was hers and his and…

Cuddy startled awake, her heart pounding, her breaths coming short and shallow as she tried to orient herself to where she was. It wasn't home.

It was the office at House and Stacy's townhouse. She was in the wing-back chair that sat in the corner. It was night, the room dark except for moonlight coming through the window. She'd fallen asleep. House…

Her eyes sought him out.

…was on the couch, watching her. He had disconnected the IV and was sitting up, reclined into one corner of the couch. The change in position indicated he'd gotten up at some point, probably to go to the bathroom. He was wearing a robe and his injured leg was propped up on the chair that doubled as a nightstand.

"You okay?" he asked and his voice was soft.

She nodded and swallowed to quell the nausea she felt.

_God, that dream… They'd… In this room…_

She felt the need to vomit but she couldn't move. His gaze had her pinned in place.

"You're okay," he said, not a question this time, and it was so comforting to hear those words from him. She felt like crying, but she didn't. She just looked at him as he looked at her.

"You're trembling."

She hadn't noticed. She felt cold now.

"I…" she tried to speak, but that's all she could get out.

"…need a drink," he said with a nod to the shelf beside her.

Looking over, she saw a tumbler. It held whiskey most likely. She didn't turn it down.

The liquid burned its way soothingly down her throat and settled in her stomach. She shut her eyes and let the warmth suffuse her.

"Do you have them often?"

_Dreams about you? Not as often as I once did, until recently. Nightmares? Yes, about losing you and us doing things we shouldn't._

She nodded.

"The subconscious is merciless," he declared sourly and looked away from her.

His gaze fell on something outside the window and she missed it being on her almost instantly. She shivered as the warmth of the whiskey faded. She took another swallow but it wasn't as effective this time. She wanted to go over and sit next to him, and hated herself for it.

"I love her … but I hate her."

So much anguish. It took her breath away.

"I can't forget. Every moment of every day, I'm reminded by this damned pain. I can't even escape it when I sleep, or when I'm medicated, or drunk." He took a breath. "I hurt, Cuddy, all the time, and I can't pretend I don't just to make her feel better."

_You shouldn't have to, _Cuddy thought and considered she might be being uncharitable.

Stacy hadn't deserved the treatment House had dished out at her any more than he'd deserved to be consigned to pain for the rest of his life. It's just how things were. One choice made for the right reasons that netted nothing but misery for the two people involved. It wasn't fair, to either of them. She told him that.

"No," he agreed softly, "and not to you either."

Cuddy felt sick again. "House, you can't factor me into…"

He looked at her abruptly, gaze glinting in the moonlight. "That's not what I mean."

Silenced by his words, she just looked at him and saw his acknowledgement of her pain. The deeply personal one that she didn't have a soul to share with. She'd known he was aware of it, but he was validating it now, letting her know with certainty that he _knew_. She had never expected him to do that but now that he had, she realized how desperately she'd needed it. And yet she understood when he shuttered it away and looked back outside.

"I need to find a new place," he said, resigned. "I've never liked it here."


	26. Chapter 26

**Part 26**

Stacy moved. House moved.

House returned to work on a limited basis. He was, for the most part, keeping his physical therapy appointments. Wilson was a veritable nursemaid to him as he continued to recuperate. He drove him back and forth to work most days. Sometimes House caught a cab.

Every now and then Stacy would pick him up. Those days, Cuddy had come to dread. The fallout in the days following were rough, for everyone.

Benders had become the norm and Cuddy worried about his Vicodin intake in conjunction with the booze. But the pain, without it, was unbearable.

Honestly, Cuddy didn't know why he and Stacy didn't just call it quits completely. Maybe it was the familiarity that had them going back to each other. Maybe they both felt they had to give each other _one more chance_. Only one more chance had turned into a half-dozen over.

Wilson fretted over it constantly. Cuddy continued to tell him to distance himself over the relationship, to concentrate on his own marriage, and be a friend to House or Stacy, but that right now, he couldn't be one to both.

He sometimes listened. He sometimes didn't.

Cuddy steered clear of the relationship aspect altogether.

She remained House's doctor and monitored his health, as much as he'd let her, but he'd been gradually distancing himself from her. Not far, but enough that she felt his absence at times. And yet she saw him most every day at work.

He was largely subdued on that front, much to the staff's delight but not to hers. Those were the days the pain was unbearable and occupied his mind almost completely. He kept his head down and did his job on those days, no more, no less. The days he lashed out were when it was bearable but still impeded his functioning. Tolerable-pain days were rare but easily recognizable — he invariably found something to bug her about. He would call her constantly, page her, limp his way down to her office and enter without knocking.

The latter drove her nuts but she put up with it because by the time he reached her, he looked completely exhausted from the effort. She let him get away with a lot because she knew he was dealing with a lot.

Sometimes she went home and cried because she'd seen him leaving the hospital with his shoulders hunched and head bowed as he all but dragged his right-leg behind him to catch his ride home.

Tonight was one of those nights and it was worse than usual because his ride today had been Stacy.

Cuddy was sick at the thought of what he would do to himself when the woman invariably left him. And she would. And then Wilson would have to put him back together. And Cuddy would help however House would let her.

Since that night in the office at the townhouse he and Stacy had shared, he had been careful to not talk about some things around Cuddy. She had expected it after he directly acknowledged the pain it caused her.

House was prone to cruel outbursts — to which many people could attest — but he was not a cruel man by nature. He didn't want her to hurt any more than she did him. Which is what made it so hard to sit alone in her home and wait for the inevitable.

To occupy herself, Cuddy had brought home more paperwork than normal but it was actually sitting untouched in her satchel while she sat in the corner of her couch. The only thing she'd done since coming home was eat a cup of soup and start a fire.

It wasn't snowing yet, but the precipitation was in the forecast for tomorrow. It was cold out, though, had been for the last couple of months as the holiday season neared. The fire had become a nightly thing, for warmth, but tonight she wanted it for a different kind of comfort.

The warm glow and lazy flicker leant a dreamy quality to her living room, making her feel like she was in a cocoon, safe from the rest of the world.

She had felt that feeling before, many times in Michigan. But the comfort and security there had come from the man who currently occupied her thoughts, not a hearth.

Their lives had changed in so many ways from those days of largely carefree youth. It amused her to think that she was only a few years older than he'd been when they'd first met. They had changed as people over the years, each in their own way, but the connection they shared hadn't. He was still her friend and she was his, their _more_ still intact. That amazed her, and she was grateful for it.

Looking at the clock on the mantle, Cuddy noted the lateness of the hour and sighed. If she had any hopes of being awake for the budget meeting in the morning, she needed to head to bed now. She used to fall asleep quickly, but not in recent months.

Rising, Cuddy tended the fire, dampening it for the night then headed toward her bedroom. She nearly jumped out of her skin when there was a sudden knock at the door. She cautiously made her way over and peered out the peephole.

House.

Alarm gripping her, Cuddy quickly unlocked the door and pulled it open. He nearly toppled in on top of her. He didn't say a word, but the grimace he wore and the pained way he was breathing and looking at her told her all she needed to know.

"Come on," she said softly then helped him inside.


	27. Chapter 27

**Part 27**

His silence continued while she helped him undress. Eye contact was brief and infrequent as their hands worked in tandem while he sat on the side of the bed.

With gentle hands, she unbuttoned his shirt then eased it back over his shoulders. Memories emerged as together they worked it off his arms and tossed it over with his jacket, which lay across the corner chair. His t-shirt went next. Then she knelt and helped him with his boots and socks.

With fingers still unsteady from the cold, he managed to button his jeans then lower the zipper. He stood gingerly, his weight shifted to his good leg but equally unsteady, to push them down. Still on her knees, she helped him pull them down to his bare feet, careful of his thigh. He sat again and she pulled them off and put them with his other things.

When she returned to remove the compression bandage from his thigh, he finally broke his silence with a heartbreaking plea. One word.

"Don't."

She conceded to his wishes with a nod, even though she longed to tell him he didn't need to hide that part of him from her.

"I'll warm the water," she said instead and eased into her bathroom. She turned on the shower then went back out to check on him.

He was sitting exactly where she'd left him, his head hung low. His eyes were shut. His frown seemed a permanent fixture. She could remember a time when he smiled often.

"I have a chair that you can use to sit," she said. "I'll be right back."

He gave a little nod but otherwise didn't move.

"Lay down if you need to," she said softly before leaving the room.

The plastic chair was from a cheap little patio set she'd bought and used on the balcony of her first apartment in Princeton. It was the only piece that remained, the rest of the set having fallen victim to a heavy snow a couple years ago. Why she'd kept the odd piece, she didn't know, but she was glad she had. House needed it now.

He had laid back across the bed while she was gone, his legs hanging over the side, but he was still awake. He was too tense to be asleep.

"Just a few more minutes," she let him know as she passed.

In the bathroom, she wedged the chair into the shower stall and washed it down before she retrieved him.

"If you want to take them off," she said of his underwear, "I'll put them in the wash with your other things while you shower."

Out of modesty, she averted her eyes when he reached for the waistband but, unexpectedly, he asked her to help, drawing her gaze to his. She saw a need there she hadn't seen since…

"House…"

"I don't feel anything there anymore," he said in response then looked away and asked her to leave him. Shame hung about him, almost visible in the steam beginning to rise out of the shower.

She was reluctant to do so, the desire to comfort him so strong. But she did — fearing that her lingering might be translated as pity, and he _hated_ pity — but told him she was leaving the door open in case he needed her.

He just nodded and she gave him his space.

Once she heard the shower stall door shut, she emptied the pockets of his jeans and prepped his clothes for the wash and set them on the dresser. She laid his keys and the nearly empty bottle of Vicodin there, too, along with his wallet.

She did it by rote, all of it, everything from the moment he'd come into her home. No questions asked. No explanations needed.

He needed her to put him back together and he'd come to her like he had that night in Michigan, after the car accident. Like that night in Detroit, minus the inebriation.

It was surreal but she didn't know what else to do. She knew she shouldn't be doing any of it. She was his doctor and his boss. But she was also his friend and that's who he'd come to see — and that part of her could not turn him away tonight.

It was the first time he'd come to her home, the first time since those days in Michigan that he'd sought her out instead of her going to him. She wondered if that meant he was finally done with Stacy, that the attachment had been severed once and for all. It was not with joy that she hoped so, but with the sincere hope that the torture was finished, for both of them. But especially for him. He couldn't keep going like this.

While he continued to shower, she made her way to the kitchen to get a glass of water for him. She locked the front door then came back to her bedroom.

It was the only one in her little house. She was planning to buy a bigger place in the Spring — she needed room for entertaining — but for now, this was it and she was going to put House to bed, in her bed. She wouldn't sentence him to the couch in his condition. He needed rest, real rest and comfort. He so was battered and bruised, inside and out.

Her heart trembling with the hope he would find safety and peace here, she set out her bedclothes, placing then atop the chest of drawers near the doorway. She would take the couch. It was the sensible course. If he asked otherwise…

Hearing the water shut off, she gave him a few moments before asking if he needed anything. An empty "I'm okay" was his reply.

She sat on the side of the bed within sight of the still-open bathroom door so she could get to him quickly if he changed his mind. But he didn't. And he managed.

God, bless him, he managed to get out of the shower on his own, even with wet feet, and cross the tile, over to the towels she'd set out on the counter. He wrapped one around his waist, concealing his nakedness and his thigh. He had kept his back to her the entire time precluding her seeing the scar, telling her he knew she was watching. The second he used to dry his hair and upper body.

He made only the briefest of eye contact with her as he rejoined her in the bedroom. He made his way over to the chair where his clothes had been. She couldn't help but watch his every move as he sat. He was steadier now than he had been before but he moved as if his limbs were made of lead. He was tired but warm. And he was in pain. It resurged when he leaned forward to dry his feet.

_The pressure that must put on his thigh…_

She wanted so badly to help but feared he wouldn't want it. So she waited and watched and moved to him when he was done, taking him a dose of his Vicodin and the glass of water. She didn't ask when he'd last taken it, how much he'd had to drink and when, or anything that she would have normally asked as his doctor. Instead, she sent him to the bathroom with instructions on where to find a toothbrush while she turned down the bedding.

"I don't have anything for you to wear," she said softly when he came back out and sat on the side of the bed. She had shut off the lights in the room, except the low lamp by the bed.

In response, he reached for her, setting his hands on her hips. She let him guide her to stand between his legs and held her breath when he wrapped his arms around her and laid his head on her chest. He hadn't done that in…

Her restraint lasted a heartbeat, maybe two before she loosely wrapped her arms around him. He shuddered at the contact and tension fled him in a rush. He took a deep breath and she gently ran her fingers through his damp hair for several moments before asking the question that burned in her mind.

"Is it over?" she braved, her voice as soft as she could make it.

A deep breath. Then a little nod.

"It's over," he exhaled and hugged her tighter.

She hugged him in return, her heart aching with a subdued joy. Bowing, she shut her eyes and rested her cheek against the top of his head and silently wished him peace. She prayed for it. Then she whispered the word against his brow when she took his face in her hands and tipped his head back.

When she drew back, he looked at her, so empty of everything but need, not wholly defined but all-compassing. Every part of him just … _needed_.

And so did she. If he wanted…

"Stay with me?" he whispered, reading her perfectly and yet so fearful of her response.

She drew her thumbs across his cheeks as she nodded.

"Yes," she whispered. "Whatever you need."


	28. Chapter 28

This chapter makes the final part of Everything Changes. I know it's shorter than the bookends of Michigan and Making Amends, but it is the length my muse determined it should be - A/N at the end. Thank you for reading and commenting!

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><p><strong>Part 28<strong>

Hope supplanted fear and his eyes grew glassy with unshed tears.

He was so hurt. His body. His heart. And he just wanted it to stop.

Her heart aching and filled with love for him, she let her gaze venture to his mouth and back, seeking permission. He gave it by shutting his eyes and parting his lips slightly, face still turned up in supplication.

Tenderness. He wanted that. She gave it.

Closing the short distance, she brushed her lips against his and the contact rocked her to her core. Her heart quivered in her chest and every part of her sparked to life.

She took a thready breath as she lingered in invitation. He accepted, kissing her with a infinite delicateness that reminded her of their first kiss, and so many others.

It was almost more than she could take, the emotions of past and present swelling within. But it was the present that came to prominence. Because this was not a celebration of what they once were, or an act of hope of being that again. It was not even about the grief of a just-lost love. It was just love.

Memories would still well. Desire would still fan to flame. They had history that would be impossible to ignore. Already she was being reminded of the beauty of physical intimacy with him. No man had ever made her feel what he did with just a kiss. With _this_ kiss.

Fingers caressing his cheeks, she moved incrementally closer to him and kissed him again. His mouth fell into perfect sync with hers, their kisses evolving from breathy to soft and slow. The little smacks of their lips parting and melding repeatedly filled her ears. She threaded her fingers into his hair and tilted his head to kiss him deeper still, unabashedly declaring what she was offering him.

He drew her closer in acceptance, his hands moving beneath her sweater, up to caress her back.

_That touch… His touch…_

She trembled and pulled her mouth from his. Releasing him, she reached for the hem of her sweater. His hands aligned with hers and together they lifted the garment up. She raised her arms and let him remove it completely.

She reached back for the hooks on her bra, but his fingers touched hers in request. She surrendered the task to him and held his gaze as he released the fasteners then reverently guided the material from her body. She dropped it to the floor beside them and watched him look at her.

He touched her nipples gently, with just the tips of his fingers and her breath caught. When he cupped her, pleasure flooded her. She curled her hands around his forearms, closed her eyes, and let her head fall back as her body came beautifully alive for him. The strength of the awakening took her breath away. Her body shuddered hard with it.

"Cuddy."

At the whisper of her name, she looked at him and saw a question and he gave it voice. "You haven't?"

"It doesn't matter," she whispered then set a course for his mouth. She kissed him, repeating, "It doesn't matter."

Because it didn't matter. He did. This did.

His hands cupped her shoulders and pulled her so close as he kissed her back, with desire and need. She desired him, too, and she ached to touch him and bring his body to life. To give that back to him. He was so sure it was lost.

Lips engaged with his, she skimmed a hand along his neck to his shoulder then down his chest, seeking to caress that part of him.

His mouth left hers when she tugged the towel loose. Anguish flooded his features and he pleaded with her to stop.

She didn't, gently opening the material. He stopped her from exposing his thigh, but she comforted him.

"You can leave it covered," she breathed then urged him to lay back.

"I can't," he confessed.

"This isn't about _just_ that," she said and kissed him again, breathing into him, "Trust me."

He trembled in surrender and lay back slowly, giving himself up to her. She had no words to describe what feelings that wrought in her heart.

Keeping his thigh covered, she bowed and kissed his sex, covering every inch of him with slow caresses of her lips before taking him into her mouth. He let out a groaning sob when his body slowly stirred. She reached for his hand where it clutched the bedspread and locked her fingers with his. She shut her eyes then and tended him, bringing him to hardness and stopping only when he stopped her.

He sat up and reached for her face, pulled her into a searing kiss that told her how much he'd needed what she'd given him, how much he still needed.

Taking his hands in hers, she guided them down to the waist of her yoga pants. He pulled his mouth from hers and helped her reveal the rest of her body to him as he drew her thong down with the pants. She stepped out of them, pushing them behind her with her toes, then braced her hands on his shoulders when he touched her sex, his fingers caressing gently.

"House…" she gasped, her eyes drifted shut as her body awakened further.

"Come for me."

It was a wish for more than her pleasure. He needed to give her that. He needed her to come for him, because of him. She heard it in his voice, saw it when she looked at him again.

"Yes," she whispered and shifted to give him better access. He took it and deftly brought her to climax with his hand, touching her in all the ways she remembered. He knew her body. He hadn't forgotten.

Then he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her neck and chest. His mouth found her breasts and suckled and caressed them in a flurry of desire. She caressed his back and shoulders, she kissed his brow and told him she wanted him inside her.

He shuddered and drew back to look up at her, almost in disbelief.

"What's the best way for you?" she asked directly but softly.

"Laying down," he said after a moment.

"Okay," she whispered.

He started to pull himself farther onto the bed, but the towel moved. She reached for it and wrapped it carefully around his thigh without exposing he scar. The look of gratitude…

"I've got it," she said and let him do what he needed to do.

Once he was settled, she joined him, crawling over him, kissing and caressing her way from his knees up to capture his mouth. She stole his breath as effectively as he stole hers. His hands held her hair back from her face, kept her captive to his kiss.

She pressed her chest to his. He moaned and reached for her back to urge her closer then, soon after, her hips to tell her what he wanted.

She raised and reached between him, keeping her weight from his thigh as she took him in hand. She aligned them and brought him against her.

He trembled under her and she looked into his eyes as she took him in, inch by inch, trembling and gasping as she did, glorying in seeing the pleasure take him. He was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

_I love you. _

She told him with her body. With each movement of her hips. In how she kissed and caressed him as she moved over him. And in how she looked into his blue eyes that revealed exactly how vulnerable the last months had left him.

He'd come to her in need of comfort and she was comforting him the way she'd longed to do from the start. She knew that the language of his heart and mind was that of the body. Of sex and intimacy. Of physical contact. It had been lost to him but now, right now, it wasn't and he gave her what he could and she gave him what she could, with an open heart and in full knowing that it might be the only time he allowed it.

So she made it count. She brought them to climax then, later in the night, let him take her. She had wept as he seized the joy of being wanted and welcomed, at not feeling fear or suffocated with expectations. And she'd wept at the physical agony that accompanied every move he made, that he'd endured to reclaim himself as the sensual being he was at his core.

After, she'd just held him, her body absorbing the shudders of his. They'd slept but in the early hours, he reached for her again and they touched and tasted each other.

When she woke next, he was gone. She had expected he would be, and touched the pillow next to her with bittersweet understanding.

Last night had been right, an oasis, but the approach of day brought with it the reality that what other healing he needed, she would not be able to help with. He still had to grieve Stacy and she could not be a part of that. He needed space and she could give him that — and he knew it.

One day there might be more for them, but for now things were about to change again. She didn't know in what ways but she knew it was inevitable.

But not all change was negative.

Laying in the predawn darkness amidst still-warm sheets that smelled of him, she considered a change that she could bring about, one that had the power to help him in other ways.

Puzzles. He needed them, maybe more now than ever before.

She could give him those — the medical puzzles that he thrived on. And as dean, she could give them to him in a way that allowed him to use his unique gifts to their full potential and help others.

Excited at the prospect, Lisa Cuddy began planning.

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><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE:<strong>

I know that this is yet another bittersweet ending for House and Cuddy, but I again followed the course of my muse and I do not believe she has led me wrong in the length or content of this story. It has been the most emotionally complex I've ever written and personally draining. But also rewarding.

I love these characters dearly and though I do not give the AU "happily ever after" here, nor in Michigan, I do believe this is the stepping stone for their relationship evolving into what we saw in the series - a deep friendship fraught with respect, not-quite requited love, playfulness, and sexual tension amidst the insanity of living within House's orbit. She is not able to heal all his wounds here (that is Making Amends) but she does, I think, give him the strength to move forward, even if it's to an entirely fucked-up existence for a time.

Thank you so much to all of you who have read and commented - and to those who will read in days to come.

Special thanks once again to my betas!

P.S., you will some edits in the future to Making Amends to bring any inconsistencies into line with the prequels. That's what I get for writing the end first :)


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